


Redemption Bound

by 0oLadyDeliriumo0, MillenniumNacht



Series: Legends of the Frost [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Bryn is our BBB: Best Bro Bryn, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Pitch/Jack, Open Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Play, Rough Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, There may be dragons, Touch-Starved, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0oLadyDeliriumo0/pseuds/0oLadyDeliriumo0, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillenniumNacht/pseuds/MillenniumNacht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said that heroes are born in the aftermath of destruction, that they rise from the ashes to protect the realm with everything that they are, body and soul.</p><p>But Jack Frost is no hero.</p><p>He’s a scared little boy running from everything he’s ever known, his past and his mistakes in the hopes that time and family will forget him, that Skyrim will devour whatever is left. However, and like most things as of late, nothing goes his way. Still, he did not expect to have an impossibly massive beast of legend rise from dusty history tomes and the stanzas of songs that many a bard has sung into the ground.</p><p>Of all things, he did not expect dragons. Yet, one of these supposedly long dead terrors managed to burn the small Falkreath holding of Helgen to the ground.</p><p>So now he runs. In clothes he doesn’t own and on feet that are unfamiliar with the harsh terrain, to somewhere —anywhere — but here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Passing Ships

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE KEEP ALL EXTREMETIES INSIDE THE SHIP AT ALL TIMES  
> WE'RE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR BROKEN HEARTS OR POTENTIAL TEARS  
> BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELTS KIDDIES  
> IT'S GOING TO BE A BUMPY RIDE

Footfalls, uneven and panicked, strike the earth; somewhat dulled by the soft soles of worn, beaten, leather boots that are not his to own and were not ever meant for him to possess. A flutter of cobalt robes is a soft noise amidst the ever churning frigid air, with the late afternoon sun climbing high into the canvas sky above Nirn. Its copper light unfortunately does little to warm bones not chilled by the cold, but by tragedy and misfortune. He thinks for a moment, as he frantically flees, that The Eight must be oblivious to the hell unfolding upon Nirn’s surface with the precision only a prophecy could wield. They had been thought to have all but disappeared thousands of years ago, when the world was still young and Nordic heroes waged war with their hands as well as their powerful cries. There is absolutely no way it could be possible though, the dragons are gone, and have been for ages now, yet…

Yet, there was one that burned the small town of Helgen _to the ground_.

That... couldn't have just been a dream, no--

Jack Frost had been raised to be many things. A fool, however, was not one of them. As the son of a scholar and a mage, he’d been more than well versed in the many cultures and histories scribed in tomes only the dedicated bothered to read, and thus he knew very well what the return of the dragons would mean for the fate of Nirn as they knew it and for the time to come... It would be a grim, dark, prophecy from the days of the ancient ones.

It spoke of brothers waging war, spilling the blood not of outsiders but of their kin, and a land that stood divided at the fall of their king. It was a legend that would dawn in fire and bring all of the world to a smolder, crumbling into soot and ash, between the jaws of the winged and the damned.

He did not come to Skyrim for this, though. No. He’d come to Tamriel’s desolate north and its frosty peaks for one thing and one thing alone.

He’d come to die.

...He seemingly couldn’t even do that right, apparently. He felt the fear seep into his being like a damp invasion through his pores, pricking and hooking into his flesh to wrack his wiry frame with tremors as glacial eyes met the headsman’s block of scarlet stained slate. Jack had been summoned, and his rabbit heart fluttered in his ears with a rhythm of panic, breath guttering past well bitten and raw lips in trembling rasps. Had he not wanted this? Had he not _deserved_ it? ...Of course he did, he absolutely did but… But he couldn’t face her... not yet. He just couldn’t. Perhaps her body had still been warm underneath all that ice when he fled, her heart a still beating thrum of hope for him to make amends for one small character flaw-- but he had allowed the all consuming might of his cowardice to chase him into a land unknown.

And now, here he was, just _running_. How _naïve_.

He had no clear idea of a destination in mind, all that mattered was that he move, but that Imperial soldier --Hadvar if he remembered correctly -- had told him to go to Riverwood before he was outright slaughtered by a Stormcloak rebel. It surfaced an almighty question however for the mage. ...Where in Oblivion was Riverwood? The moment he’d made it out of the underground fort beneath Helgen he was dropped out into Skyrim’s unforgiving wilderness and his apparently good sense of direction had seemingly fled for higher and more familiar ground. A road proved to be his saving grace and his frazzled logic supposed that he perhaps should follow... Yes, that seemed like the soundest decision he could make in his current state, mind still reeling from the destruction he has been subjected to and all.

Somehow he found himself in the woods, far off the well beaten path where the only trails that he could see were ones that lead to the homes of wild ones, and the thought passed through his mind of how he'd just so completely screwed himself over. It was a blaring, panicked noise that clattered in his skull in a headache inducing cacophony. It made it seem like his lungs couldn't get enough air, constricting him, like his stammering heart couldn't beat to the rhythm he needed, all of which were fueled by feet far too slow, and just... Oh Gods, Oh _Gods_ what had he--

\-- _THUD!_

Into the beaten wooden door of a fort Jack goes, not mindful of the consequences potentially held behind.

Thankfully, he was only staggered by the impact, and the boy flicks algific hues back to the door that was so wrongfully in his way. A scowl mars his features as he glares at it, hoping that under the might of his stare it'd coax it into moving for him. Oddly enough, that doesn’t seem to work and his sour face falters into something flat as he takes note of his heaving chest, and shaking limbs. A body well beaten grows tired, and he needs to rest, perhaps even a chance to breathe and try to… Figure this whole thing out.

...Gods, he’s _screwed_.

Slowly, he reaches forth and opens the door, slipping inside with little effort thanks to his lithe, slight frame. At least being part of Tamriel’s mongrel race had it’s perks, right?... By Kynareth, who was he shitting?

The fixture closes behind him, a sound of finality that offers enough encouragement for the little Breton boy to all but collapse, sliding down its frame until he can sit with his body curled upon his person. It's certainly far from the wisest decision he could make, but Jack isn't known for doing anything that isn’t impulsive, and risking going into a potentially bandit populated fort seems worth it to him. He just… He _needs_ the rest.

There's another sound of impact, this one minute and barely audible as silvery tresses soften the blow of the boy’s head rolling back and hitting the door. Jack is _exhausted_ , which is nothing new, especially so in recent weeks-- but it was beginning to settle in him marrow deep and the thought perhaps, on another day, would cause him concern. Since he fled Cyrodiil however, he’s been little more than a dead man walking, numb, unthinking, uncaring for anything that could fell him. Yet still, when he looked his own death straight in the eye, he'd panicked. Becoming something beyond just feeble distress as fear flooded into his veins and made a shell of a human being feel again at the most inopportune of times... To think, if only that numbness had remained thickly settled in his bones just a few moments longer...

Now, here he is, bone weary and beaten down in some crumbling fort hidden away in the bleak brutality that is Skyrim’s wilderness, high rising mountains and unforgiving beasts that now include _dragons_ for Kynareth’s sake. The company he decided to keep with that thought in mind was hysterical. Jack is more than well aware however of how crucial it is that he get out of this place and back on the road to Riverwood. Adrenaline is crashing in his system and his limbs grow stiff in response, even heavier still as the crash settles upon him and he's left to come to the realization in a rather abrupt manner that he _aches_ in places he never even could fathom from the experience. He can stifle it a little at least, especially as unconsciousness creeps in on him like a hunter locked on prey, leaching color from his vision as blackness encroaches on his line of sight. Sleep seems so… Peaceful, right now, and he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything before. The drifting nothingness of his mind is a comfortable place where he goes to forget, to lose himself in a pleasantly null void where the worries of the hopeless world aren't privy to the space he holds within. He’s glad for his two years of training with Ri’saad’s traveling trades caravan, having taught him how to even find rocks to be appropriate places to slumber.

He’s almost found that place now. With his body beginning to crumple in on itself, head back against the door, eyelids fluttering as the weight of sleep pushes down on him like a duvet of peace, beckoning him to its lifeless, blank ocean with a siren’s song. Just a little further, all he has to do is even out his breathing, let his lashes dust the apples of his cheeks and--

...The fool should know better than to think that peace would find him now, after all that he'd done.

The air in the room _shifts_.

Jack snaps back into the fully waking world with an almost comical flailing of his limbs, his heart rate shattering through the illusion of void that now distantly wails at him in distress, but his breaths come in quick succession, suffocating the embrace of his mind to focus on the world of the waking. Eyes akin to a glacial ravine dart about the room, scouring through the shadows only to turn up with nothing as a result and yet he _knows_ there’s someone, _something_ , there in the room with him. The area where his thankfully gloved palms touch the floor begin to leak out small, jagged, spikes of rime frost and it’s not that he’s doing it on purpose, it just… Happens. It's an unconscious shift in his power towards a threat and he attempts to quell it, gritting his teeth as he pulls down at his untamed magicka with all his might only to yield little results. He can only hope that whatever is there with him doesn’t see him as an enemy, the thought of dying almost tearing a dry heave from his throat.

_I can’t face her yet._

_I can’t, Ican’t, **Ican’t.**_

“..H-hello..?” It's a feeble attempt at a call that he gives, a loose and low, soft thrum of a growl as he curses himself for the way his voice quivers. Chiding himself on the fact that he sounds like a frightened little boy.

“I don’t mean any harm,” He tried to swallow his nerves, finding only a stuttering breath within his control as he talks to the darkness with his pulse humming in his ears. “I just..--I’m lost.”

His heart is still fluttering in his chest, lips parted to allow shaking, shallow breaths to cater to the rapid rise and fall of a pallid chest hidden by stolen cobalt robes. His eyes continue to pitch about the room, taking in every aspect and as his vision adjusts to the darkness… An awareness of forms appear within the range of his sight. Bodies, several in fact, are scattered over the stone floor. _Fresh_ bodies. They wear the armor of brigands but it doesn’t seem to be tarnished in the slightest, every plate and leather strap still flawlessly intact. It's with this observation that he picks up on the long and narrow protrusions sticking out of their necks, sheathed quill deep within a few well placed skulls. Arrows. Ebony make from what he could scarcely see.

The fear that has been coiling low and silent in his gut flares and the magicka leaping from his palms and fingertips sparks against his will. He swallows, clenching his hands into fists in another feeble attempt to calm the powerful destruction magic responding to his fear. His gaze turns again, away from the bodies, back to the center of the room--

His muscles give a completely uncontainable jump.

There, staring back at him with a drawn bow, clad in shrouded armor, with a face hidden by hood and mask, is the tallest man Jack has _ever_ seen. A _huge_ and lumbering giant, maybe not in muscle mass but with a height so immense in comparison to the little ice mage. The boy tucks his hands behind his back to hide them from view, frost spilling out of them now and seeing fit to mark up the surface of the door behind him. He can’t control it, not when he’s so frightened and Gods, he’s going to die, this man is going to kill him for certain--

A brief glimpse of his eyes, visible only through an opening in his mask, is more than enough to make Jack press his back flat to the fixture, brittle rime frost gushing out of his gloved fingertips in waves of fearful magicka. Those eyes are like gazing into the wastelands of Oblivion itself.

Never would Jack have thought he'd find something that awful staring back at him through the gaze of another man...

“.. Hey, uh. I-I know this looks bad but I’m n-not gonna try anything..”

_Kynareth please don’t let him kill me._

The willowy shade doesn’t seem even slightly phased by Jack’s plea, despite the truth that spills from him in that frightened tone with lips pressed into a tight line to silence the pitiful way his breath rattles up his windpipe.

“You're in the way. Move.” The figure gives pointedly, even and with a tangible bit of annoyance. “If you're lost, I suggest that you leave and turn back to Helgen. This isn't a path you wish to be walking.”

It takes Jack far longer than it should to realize that anything has been said at all, attention locked on the man’s movements rather than his voice. He has to force himself not to let the uncontrolled magicka bleeding from his palms spark and ignite into a spell, because even he knows that the arrow notched within the grip of the drawn bow would find his throat faster than he could ever hope to take aim. He really doesn’t want to die, either, not anymore and certainly not after he’s just escaped being burned alive by the skin of his teeth.

When the order does process though, Jack continues to sit there for a few beats more and he blinks like some sort of startled spring faun, as if he doesn’t quite understand what is being said to him, language perhaps an uncommon thing to his panicked ears. He very nearly asks what the giant of a man means, his mouth even dropping open around a query that catches in his throat as the words finally click and make sense in his brain. Jack's body pulls away from the door now coated in a generous amount of frost, entailing of the repugnant emotions that swirl with exhaustion to settle heavy like a dead weight at his core.

Yet the suggestion that the man poses only succeeds in drawing Jack’s brow down into a furrow, followed soon by a gaze that he sends upon the stranger who seems like he just sprung four heads. Had the destruction that he'd been witness to really been so silent? Did no one realize that Helgen was now nothing more than smoldering rubble and ash? Nothing but a filament of memory to those that once knew?

“...You don’t know?” Jack asks, something horrific springing into his tone as he continues further. “Helgen was destroyed, burned to the ground by a… by a _dragon_.”

Jack can see the man lower his guard at the retort, the molten gaze that gleams in the lowlight of the dank little room narrowing in disbelief. The mage can nearly see the gears turning in his head as he tries to make sense of what he has just been told before he shakes his head rather adamantly, coming to a final conclusion.

“It's no wonder Helgen's left you for the wolves when you're nothing but a boy who cries wolf.” Is the reply, tone thick with a condescension that makes Jack scowl in turn. His body is still stretched taut with tension as the bow is finally put away and the man makes to move around him, giving the door a precursory glance before wrapping a palm around its handle. Jack looks quickly to the hand on the door and makes note of slate colored digits that are spidery and long, in their make.

Awful tall to be a Dunmer, he thinks, odd eyes too.

“Come, lad, as much as I believe in natural selection, it won't be done on my watch. I'll return you home, and then I can be on my way.”

Yet he persists and Jack knows that he's being perceived as stark raving mad, if the look the golden eyed Dunmer gives him says anything. He isn’t, however, he knows what he saw. There's not a single inkling of doubt in his mind that Helgen is no more and that people _died_ today, he bore _witness_ to it. Death is a fact of life in Tamriel, no one needs to tell him that, but the way the citizens of Helgen were so violently torn asunder... That does not warrant the look he is given, people were not just killed, they were _massacred_.

“I’m telling the truth,” Jack retorts, bitter at the way he's being silently mocked. He hates being called a liar when he knows he’s right about something and despite the fact that he should be heading to Riverwoood, the man’s offer wins out and the mage sees it as an opportunity to prove him wrong.

“But, fine then. If you don’t believe me then by all means lead the way and I’ll _show_ you.”

All Jack gets is an eyeroll when he stands and he meets it with a glare. He hasn’t known the masked Dunmer for more than ten minutes and he already doesn’t like him. Which, when he pauses briefly to think about it, is odd as he’s never been quick to judge others based on first encounters. This man however had a drawn bow aimed towards his skull, and that is more than enough incentive to earn such a negative opinion from the young mage.

Yet he still follows when the mer exits the building, long strides picking him easily back onto the road as Jack follows, feebly attempting to make sure he's not left behind in the dust. Even at the distance that he’s chosen to walk behind the man, he can still see just how tall he is, nearly alpine in his height and more than enough to make the little Breton look like a molehill in comparison.

These idle observations are all the company that the mage is given, save for the silence of the Dunmer leading him.

Moments tick by that only bring them closer to Helgen, where the bustle of a lively little town _should_ be heard… Yet there's nothing, only silence. Not even the type of silence that the wilderness provided like the melody of birdsong, no animals moving in the forest underbrush around them, they were greeted only with the sounds of their booted feet against the worn road of stone and dirt, and nothing further. Just ahead of him Jack sees the mer grow minutely stiff, although it’s hard to detect, it was just the slightest ripple of unease moving through wide expanse of his shoulders-- had he not been watching, he likely wouldn't have even seen the reaction. A starkly contrasting brow lofts at it and he contemplates if he should bring it up just to spite the man, but he’s well armed and Jack is no idiot. Well, not _usually_ anyway.

“I told you.” He mutters just loud enough for the Dunmer to hear, muffled behind a palm that he uses to shield his nose from the stench that hangs thick in the air as they stop just outside the gates.

“The only thing that you're proving to me is that I should have thought to gag you before we set off.” The other male quips. Jack thinks the sass is highly inappropriate for such a situation and the scowl that he sets back into the nonexistent lines of his youthful face states it plainly.

All train of thought for both of them is derailed as the gates are pushed open, the scent of burning flesh weaving into his nostrils to successfully heave a wretch from the boy poorly unaccustomed to the plights of the ransacked world. Hands knot up into the heavy woolen fabric of his robe, a garment that he reminds himself was pilfered from the body of a mage in Helgen’s dungeons. It was a far better replacement than that clunky armor that Hadvar had suggested he don, at least. Those memories are still fresh in his young mind and never in his life did Jack think it was possible to witness so much _death_ in mere _hours_.

_Was I the only one to make it out alive?_

The thought hits him hard, and sudden. It was a simple musing that could have sent him tumbling off his feet, especially if he hadn’t managed to cease trembling. Yet he scours the wreckage for any sign of life at all, a desperate attempt to confirm to himself that he of all people --the unpredictable mage boy -- had not been the only one to make it out alive.

Reality is a harsh and grim reminder when he sees that no one stirs.

“Perhaps there have been more raids than I was aware here... This is...” The mer starts, giving pause as he tries to find the words that don't necessarily make it through his thinning lips. Jack’s gaze flicks to him and the speculating glance that is being cast upon him, the boy’s mouth mirrors the expression he can't see.

“I am deeply sorry for the state of your home.” He gives, and Jack can hear the scant note of sincerity in the tone and formal speech.

“When I said it was a dragon I actually meant it, y’know.” For all the destruction, the mage is still going to press with the dragon theory. Not theory, he reminds himself, fact. A witnessed _fact_.

“And… It’s not my home. I’m from Cyrodiil, Chorrol actually. A band of Imperial Legionnaires ambushed me and these --Stormcloaks, or whatever they’re called -- just outside of Dark Water Crossing. I was on the headsman’s block when… When it happened and--” He cuts himself off, tearing his eyes away from the bodies of the innocent and back to the hellfire gaze of the leather-clad Dunmer.

“Still, it… Doesn’t change what happened here and how many people died.”

Jack watches the mer a few moments more in complete silence, stretching long between them as that predatory gaze looks on past his slight form. He’s no doubt shocked, this elf lives in Skyrim and the winter hued child wonders briefly if he had any family here within the shambles that was once the bustling Helgen. He supposes if he did it would warrant more of a reaction and thus, he allows it to slip from his mind, especially since the thought of someone losing their family here is enough to make his stomach churn.

“Falkreath would likely appreciate word of this...” The Dunmer muses aloud, finally seeing fit to provide Jack with a spoken answer. A sigh causes pointed shoulders to rise and fall as he looks to Skyrim’s East, but his gaze then falls upon Jack, particularly unamused, especially with a brow no doubt arched underneath his hood and mask.

“I'll be sure to keep track of it so that way if I do hear just as abnormal musings of,” the man pauses to give a mock yet comical flail of his hands. “”Dragons”, then I'll know to banish it from the minds of the people without a second thought.”

That scowl is instantly back in place upon Jack’s face, glare particularly icy and dark brows tilted in what is an attempt to make himself look more intimidating than he really is. How dare this man have the audacity to take this a situation so lightly. Raiders didn’t do this, not trained beasts, especially for when no leashed companion truly possessed teeth the size of swords. Not to mention many of the bodies strewn around them have not just been torn to pieces, entire arms, legs, heads, and even torsos, lie yards away from each other, scorched and splattered on the ground as if--

Another full body shudder trembles up Jack’s spine and he has to close his eyes against it to steel himself once more. He won’t bring it up, he realizes that he doesn’t have the energy to, nor the stomach to handle it in the forefront of his mind once more.

“I was told to go to Riverwood. Tell this Imperial soldier’s uncle what happened. Places like Riverwood and Falkreath are unprotected by walls unlike your major cities here from what I’ve been told. They need to know first.” Jack manages, forcing the sour face he wears back down with a swallow. Silence follows and were it not for all the destruction --all the death -- spread around them it would have been awkward. His skin is still prickling up into gooseflesh when the mer moves-- an uncertain distress forever haunting in the core of the boy for the predatory aura of the Dunmer and his lethality-- to start walking away.

“Hey!” The mage calls after him, arms unfolding to reach out, as if pointing his limbs in the other male’s general direction would amplify his voice. “Couldn’t you like… Give me directions or something? I have absolutely no idea where Riverwood is.”

The lumbering giant comes to an abrupt halt at Jack’s call, and he turns to look back at him in that same impatient manner.

“Pray tell, why should I?” He ganders, tone pointed. “That's certainly no way to ask if you're wishing for a courteous response.”  

Flippantly, he turns again, heading off in the direction that he had started towards to begin with. “I would suggest looking for a map in someone's pocket unless your morals decide to make a sudden appearance.” Jack can hear the mirth now, festering in his tone. “Unless, of course, you're just afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Jack’s nostrils flare in agitation at the mere thought of what the man is suggesting, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that he’s being told to go steal a map. He’d just narrowly missed being beheaded and slaughtered by a dragon. So jail, a place where he would be _confined_ , was undesirable to say the very least.  

That, and well, he wasn’t exactly known for being silent.

“Just point me in the right direction, okay? And I’ll be out of your hair, you’ll never see me again. Is that sufficient?”

“Uncouth creature that you are...” The man seethes, and Jack can almost hear him gritting his teeth and nearly hissing out the phrase as he jerks his head in the direction of the boy's destination. “Go North of here, you'll find a split in the path. Follow it North East, and once you're past the mountain and by the river, you should find it well enough.” 

The Dunmer gives a loud and haughty scoff. “Be wary of dragons on your travels, mongrel.” There's a dangerous smile given, but not seen, and the mer turns on his heel to head off once more.

Jack’s mouth gapes slightly at the racial slur thrown his way, an insult to poke at Bretons being of twin bloods and therefore somehow impure. It wasn’t something that he had to deal with often growing up and he supposes that being from a well off family has something to do with that. Yet all he can do here is watch with clenched fists as the dusky skinned elf goes with expertly placed strides that carry him with a grace only ever seen in members of his kind. The magicka once more surges to life in his gloved, scarred palms, seeping out and clinging as sharp ice crystals to the worn leather of his gloves.

“...Thanks, asshole.” He mutters, glaring again at the shadowy figure’s retreating form before he urges his own to do the same, in the opposite direction.

With luck, he’ll never catch hide nor hair of that accursed Dunmer ever again.

Jack, however, should have learned not to test the waters of fate. Hard lessons were meant to be repeated.


	2. Fool's Errand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos, comments, and bookmarks last chapter, we're both very thankful for the support. <3

It was with relative ease that Jack found his way to Riverwood. Just as the name suggested, it was a colonized location that ran alongside the river White. Perhaps one would call him a fool for thinking the location hard to determine, but between a less than fortunate encounter with a dragon and a particularly sassy encounter with a towering Dunmer who'd officially made it on his shit list, all in a land that he was less than familiar with, there wasn't much that one could expect from him.

It had been a long and taxing day for the mage, but the hour long trek from the ruins of Helgen had surprised and even refreshed him with the rather desolate path he'd navigated. Sans for a few skittish foxes and a leaping rabbit or two, he'd been devoid of all company, nothing but a few lonesome thoughts that kept his mind at bay. He was thankful, really, for not having come upon any truthfully savage wildlife. Tangoing with a bear, or really any unknown beast that he wasn't fully aware of, was not exactly high on his list of priorities.

What he did know, however, was that he was to be looking for Hadvar's uncle, the town's blacksmith whose name had died on the tongue of an Imperial Soldier when a Stormcloak rebel's war axe had cut into the junction of neck and shoulder, silencing him for many moons to come. Up until that point, Jack honestly hadn't realized that someone could hold that much blood... or spill it, for that matter, so quickly.

Gruesome musings aside, Riverwood itself stood without walls and nothing but an open archway before him, perfectly pure and certainly not burned to the ground. Sentinels were stationed around the fortress like location and even alongside the bridge in which he walked and one such guard turned, tilting his head in suspicion of the boy's approach as any good observer would. Jack's however left to speculate and assume that it must be due to his attire, stolen robes would certainly cast the mage in disdain for the Nords' light. Mages after all were seen as a danger, a most prominent threat, and certainly above all-- not worthy of trust.

Jack can only manage a wave however, a simple and awkward raised palm and a twinkle of gloved fingers. Offering a meek, little smile to perhaps ease the guard from the more than weary air he was beginning to radiate the closer he got. A reply is given, muffled and indifferent, but a snort all the same with an expression unreadable beyond the nearly fully enclosed helm atop the man's crown.

“Watch yourself, mage.” He's warned, and Jack is left to simply thin his lips and retort with a short stutter of a nod. The disdain held within the simple words isn't something that Jack will forget.

“...Right, yeah. Sure thing.”

Even as he passes beneath the high standing arch and into the busy town, he can't shake the feeling of hidden eyes burning holes into the back of his skull. Apparently, everyone was just doomed to be an excessively rude and unpleasant jerk in this part of Skyrim. He'd certainly done nothing to warrant the attitude, especially when he came bearing the message of a dead soldier. The smithy however wasn't even 20 feet from the entrance, and crystalline orbs can already spot the man toiling away at his forge. His heart gives a leap, thinking over what it is that he's to tell the man... Not even that all of Nirn as they knew it was likely in danger from sky soaring beasts, but that a nephew -most likely dearly loved and cherished- was no longer of this world. Logically, Jack knows that he couldn't have done anything to save Hadvar, staying would have sealed his own fate and he'd be nothing more than another body to add to a now severely mangled pile...

The silent and internal query of “What if?” however was a constant noise in the confines of his skull. First nothing more than a soft whimper of conscience, but one that became a growing and blaring ring of guilt the longer he lamented over the possibility. Guilt itself however was not an unknown feeling to him, perhaps more like an invasive stranger that one had readily grown used to. He can recall the moments when he first became acquainted with it-- when his mother or father would scold him for doing something foolish when he obviously knew better... of being sent to his room for tracking mud through their abode. In place of the trembling child now stood a boy with blood on his palms, staining not just the skin of his scarred hands but of his very soul.

Jack can't help but feel now that Hadvar's life is just another on his mitts too, and it's almost amazing how in little less than a month he's become such a stricken thing, constantly reminding himself of what he'd done.

That he should be dead for, in turn.

Lost in his musings, the clearly oh so observant mage is nearly sent sprawling. Tripping over his own feet as he walked up onto the deck of the smithy, a hushed curse slipping from him that draws the attention of the slaving man.

“Afternoon to you, are you looking to buy?” He's asked, a welcoming smile being cast upon him. It's quite the contrast in comparison to what he'd been getting thus far and thus even more accustomed to in his everyday life.

“No, no I'm not,” Jack decides quickly that he's better off getting straight to the point, lest he drive himself mad with the guilt that soon would likely be blocking his ability to speak. “You're Hadvar's uncle, right?”

Pulled from his usual business queries, the man gives a pause. Quirking a brow at Jack in question before giving his reply. “Yes, I am. His Uncle Alvor, town blacksmith. And who might you be? Not that I mean to offend, but I believe I would have remembered if Hadvar had told me of any friends by your description.”

Jack ducks into the small workplace, mindful of the tools around him. He's given his first real glimpse of the man, and he realizes quickly just how similar him and his nephew had been to one another. There was nearly identical ash brown hair, strangely familiar eyes of chestnut stationed in a hardy Nordic face. The one difference the mage could see was the man's beard. The uncanny resemblance to the freshly deceased however doesn't help Jack any more than it does hinder him.

“Well, we kind of only just met,” The lad takes to worrying his bottom lip, closing his eyes in an attempt to steel himself with a deep breath. When he opens them again, Alvor is staring at him with pinched features that can only further display his unspoken confusion.

“...I've something to tell you about your nephew... and you're not going to like it.”

A pregnant pause is brought between them, and the mage unfortunately finds himself unable to read the look that crosses the man's features next... He thinks it looks like resignation, like maybe he'd had an inkling towards what it was that Jack would have to tell him. His judgement however is not something he'd find himself using well any time soon, especially considering how everything had ended up.

“Then you'd better come inside.” The note of dread in Alvor's voice can be heard easily, like a soft twinge in a voice usually strong. It appeared that whatever the man had been expecting was likely the truth that he'd now have to unfortunately accept, but there was hope still there... like maybe his gut wasn't already twisting with the wishful thinking of being in a bad dream, soon to be woken.

Jack can only nod once, proceeding to follow the Nord inside where he's encouraged to shut the door behind him and take up a seat offered by a work worn hand. The man's gaze is locked on the flames crackling in a low settled hearth, expression a not so comforting blank. The boy's fingers begin to curl around the wood of the chair, finding himself unable to dig in and anchor down with his nails due to a barrier of leather gloves that still do not belong to him.

“He's dead, isn't he?” It's a comment spoken so suddenly and in such a monotone manner that Jack's breath hitches in surprise, wincing at the blunt statement without a second thought.

“...I-I'm sorry. I should have tried harder to save him-- there's no excuse for why I didn't...-- I mean, he did tell me to go, to get out--”

“Hadvar knew the risks,” Alvor interrupts; meeting Jack's guilt stricken gaze with eyes that spoke of just how deep his sorrow ran, and acceptance of his nephew's fate despite it's harsh nature. Jack's lips press thin, and he bites at a heavy tongue even as he shrinks away the slightest portion. Inviting Alvor to continue without the mage's guilt getting in the way.

“As did I,” The man continues. “our whole family was more than aware of the consequences. Skyrim is a harsh mistress, and civil war doesn't makes life here any easier. I've been prepared to receive this news from the moment Hadvar enrolled with the Legion; he was selfless, and I couldn't hold him back from protecting Skyrim and her people even if I tried. So, please... don't insult his memory by lamenting over what you didn't do.”

The boy is forced to break eye contact almost immediately, finding his fists balled as he returns them to the sanctuary of his lap. He only has the freedom to nod, swallowing against the hard lump in his throat that he hadn't realized was attempting to form. Jack can feel the blacksmith turn away and back to the warming hearth, a sigh full of heartache breaking the silence that only makes him feel twice as awful as he did before. It's bad enough that death had brought him to Skyrim to begin with. Now here he was, walking astride the deadly reaper once again and insulting a good Legionnaire's memory by wishing that he hadn't been saved-- thus passing said insult onto the grieving man. Perfect, just perfect.

“That's not all I have to tell you, though...” Jack states, hoping for a subject change, especially if it meant that sharing the knowledge would prevent even more unnecessary deaths in his wake. “It's the whole reason I'm here even to begin with, and you're probably going to think I'm crazy.”

“I take it that this is your first time in Skyrim,” There's a small thread of humor in Alvor's tone, but it's belied by the grief and hollow of the full force of the emotion. “We're crazy just for living here, so go ahead, try to surprise me.”

“Okay, uh...” The boy's more than just a little dumbfounded by the statement. Apparently his father was right when he said Skyrim born Nords were prepared to hear anything and everything at any given time, even with a prelude of bad news. “Well, like you said, I'm not from around here. I'm from Cyrodiil, and just a few days ago I was captured by the Legion in Darkwater Crossing along with a group of escaping Stormcloaks. I guess they thought I was a part of the crowd-- but, I'm not. I'm not-- I assure you, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hadn't actually realized how bad the civil war had gotten until I came here... Long story short though, Helgen was destroyed today, completely and utterly burned to the ground... by a dragon. And I know, I know that I sound absolutely nuts--”

“So I wasn't just seeing things then?”

Jack blinks owlishly when Alvor doesn't call him out for a bluff, instead turning to him with a look completely horrified at the realization.

“What?” It's all that he's able to so eloquently manage.

“Not an hour ago I witnessed what appeared to be... Just that. A dragon, flying over the Barrow. He was massive! Scales as black as night and as sharp as spears, faster than anything I've ever seen too. I thought I was going crazy, dragons haven't been around for centuries and legend says that their reappearance means--”

“That the end times are upon us.” Jack finishes, the feeling of saying the truth aloud so surreal. Was it the truth, though? Is any of this actually happening, or is this some elaborate and ruthlessly cruel nightmare he'd conjured to torment himself? The possibilities were endless.

“Yes, the end times... But if those bastards think that we'll go down without a fight, then they have another thing coming. I'm going to need to ask a favor of you.” Alvor states, and the mage's crystalline gaze flicks back to him, silent for all of a fraction of a second before he jumps on the offer with his guilt still chasing at back of his heels.

“Sure... What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to go to Whiterun,” He starts, moving away from the fire and over to several large barrels, back turned away from the peering boy. “Riverwood is vulnerable, we don't have walls like the larger cities and we certainly do not have enough men to help us if a dragon were to attack here. I need you to go to Dragonsreach at the top of the hill in Whiterun and tell Jarl Balgruuf what has happened; tell him that Riverwood needs aid. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” Jack nods immediately. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good,” Alvor declares, turning back to the mage with a small pack in hand; starting rations of food, drink, and several unnamed potions. It's then that Jack realizes just how long he's gone without a decent meal, and his stomach clenches at him angrily as it growls in reasonable protest. It can wait, however. He needed to deliver the news first, and his stomach could wait for a well deserved meal.

“It's not too far, just follow the northeast road and you should be there within the hour. Whiterun is a very hard city to miss.”

Jack's handed the pack and he takes it with a nod, slinging it over his arm and allowing it to settle comfortably against the jut of his hip. A quirked smile is given to the blacksmith, and he moved to stand and take his leave. He's forced into a pause and with the slightest twinge of a jump when a firm hand grips his shoulder however, and his gaze rises to meet the taller man's own.

“I never thanked you for telling me what happened, you were not obligated to and yet you did it regardless. You're a good lad... What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn't, but it's Jack. Jack Frost.”

“Well, Jack, thank you. But keep your wits about you around here in Skyrim, this land is certainly far from being forgiving.”

Not that he hadn't gathered that much, considering the whole town burning down around him thing, but it was a warning that he appreciated nonetheless.

“Now go. Get word to Whiterun so that maybe everyone out here will stand a fighting chance.”

Jack can't say anything much more in response, but he gives Alvor a smile steeped in as much reassurance as he can muster, despite it not being much and altogether coming off reasonably strained. He can't waste a moment further however, and he opens the door to step out into the crisp air and the unclouded sunlight of high noon.

***

Whiterun, just as Alvor had stated, was indeed very hard to miss, set as it was into a high bluff that without a doubt held unquestionable dominion over the plains below. It wasn't anything quite like the Imperial City back home in Cyrodiil, a grand location composed of nothing but alabaster stone, dazzling statues, and lively people as the streets flooded with music and a saturated air that smelled of incense and flowers galore. Jack finds it odd that the trade capital of the province to be so small, but again, it wasn't Skyrim's capital city, and from what he'd been told the title belonged to the extravagant stronghold in the far northwest region of Haafingar called Solitude. He can scarcely imagine what the place would look like in comparison to what he knew.

Dragonsreach was another location that he couldn't miss either, the Jarl's keep sitting at the highest point of the city, the Cloud District that reigned with a mighty and hard won majesty over the entire dominion. The inside was equally impressive, he comes to find, with it's high vaulted and arched ceilings, with the main hall lit by roaring fires. There's a wildness held within that Jack could hardly say he'd ever seen before, the kind that leaves him feeling impossibly small in the grand scheme of things.

Little as he might have wished to be to a smidgen of a degree, fate had other plans, and he'd ended up mattering a great bit more than he'd initially thought. Up until the point that the Jarl himself requested a favor of him, Jack had believed that this would be it, that he'd be done and perhaps finally able to figure out what he was to do in his life. Jarl Balgruuf and his court wizard Farengar had other plans.

“Okay, so let me get this straight; you want me to go into this ruin and search for this thing that may or may not be there all the while with a high chance of getting killed? Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's what it sounds like you're asking me to do here.” Jack states, tone clearly laden with annoyance. He's too far into the wing of exhaustion to bring forth the energy for outrage.

Farengar shrugs nonchalantly, the movement crinkling the fabric of his hooded robes. “Precisely.”

The mage almost can't believe what he's hearing, and he levels a disbelieving look at the elder. “...Are you kidding me?”

“I would not have suggested it if I was.”

“But I've never been in a ruin in my entire life! Let alone one infested with-- with those undead things-- draugr or whatever--... I mean, you even said that I wasn't the common brute that the Jarl usually sent you--”

“And by that I meant you were intelligent and a mage, a Breton one at that.” Farengar explains to him curtly, cutting off the potential for Jack to continue with his tangent. “You are also the sole survivor of Helgen, from what has been gathered at least. I believe that it's safe to say that you, out of any of us, stands the best chance at coming out of Bleak Falls Barrow in one piece-- Well, mostly one piece, anyway.”

“”Mostly one piece”?” Jack repeats, sputtering.

“Yes, mostly one piece.” The Nord replies, tone mirroring him and implying that he was talking about it as casually as he would the weather.

The boy gapes at him openly, proceeding to rub his face in exasperation with an open palm. “...Oh, for the love of Kyne...”

“You will be doing the people of Whiterun a great service if it's any consolation,” Farengar begins, speaking as if he cares about the greater good of the people. Jack amuses himself with the thought that he's really good at lying to himself if that's the case. “Given that my research holds true, which I'm sure it will.”

“Yeah, I want to help you, but your “if's” about your research isn't exactly the sort of thing that instills confidence there, buddy.” Jack's quick to quip. No one said anything about respecting the guy, and the mage knows he's well within his right, being sent on a fool's errand after all.

“It's not my job to imbue you confidence, now is it? You're an adventurer, you should--”

“No, I'm not an adventurer, so quit calling me one, alright?” It's a unabashed snap, completely devoid of any hesitation and instead replaced with sharpness of tone. “I'm just some-- some stupid kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Silence stretches between them for a few moments, and he can feel Farengar looking at him with an expression that is most definitely dripping with impatience. Jack's lack of confidence is out of range in comparison to the common and mindless brute who would have done the task without so much as a second thought. What comes out of his mouth next hardly seems to fit the air that he'd been exuding.

“Well, it seems that “stupid kid” was smart enough to slip from the clutches of a dragon.”

He's left sighing, closing his eyes as his lip noticeably curls. Working a slow shake through his neck that forces his head from side to side with a resignation that he'd lost the battle with the other mage. Thus, he relents.

“Fine, fine. I'll do it. I'll go to Bleak Falls Barrow, retrieve that Dragonstone, and then I'm done. No more of this.”

“Good, that's what I wanted to hear.” Farengar states, and although it's not visible on his face, there's a noticeable note of triumph in his tone that makes Jack roll his eyes. “Now, off with you, the Jarl nor myself are patient men.”

Algific hues open and the mage glares at the Nord outright. If only looks could kill... “Oh no, no, no. I didn't say I'd do it alone, did I? Can't you offer to send anyone with me? I'm doing this for the good of Whiterun after all, right? I should at least have someone to back me up...”

“I'm afraid that unfortunately, I cannot offer you any extra hands.” The reply is quick, nearly immediate, and the man appears to be completely unbothered by it given how his attention turns to the old and crackling tomes that scribed of history long since past. “However,” He cuts in, mouth curling simply around the punctuated word. “you could try checking in with The Companions over in Jorrvaskr. There are plenty of able bodied warriors there.”

If the control he was currently attempting to exercise so furtively wasn't attached to his pride, Jack likely would have stormed forward to punch the man in the jaw. Hard. He deserves it by this point, but the faster that Jack cooperates, the faster he'll be able to leave and vanish from his sight.

“Jorrvaskr... Is that the--”

“The large building made out of a Nordic ship in the Wind District, yes.”

Jack purses his lips. “Right. I'll just. Be on my way, then, I guess.” He's not even sure if his words are heard as he promptly turned on his heel and moved away from the room the moment Farengar opened his mouth to speak. If the other did in fact catch his retort, it was simply because his legs could not carry him out fast enough.

***

Just like the Jarl's keep, Jorrvaskr stands out proudly in the midst of the other buildings, set apart from them all in the Wind District below Dragonsreach. Moving inside steals the breath from his lungs due to the simple but grand craftsmanship and it's sheer and sweeping mass. The walls themselves were heavy in rich hardwoods, draped in crimson stitching upon every beam that were about as thick as Jack was tall. The hall itself, upon further inspection, appeared boat-like in design just as he'd been told. Why, Jack wasn't sure, but it certainly was successful in reminding him of where it was that he'd gone to. Lost, in a way, in the middle of a land where some of the strongest warriors decided to grace the races of man. Burdened with unfortunate purpose, they all were.

He's welcomed at least by a focal fire, stone inlay stacked high with wood that smoked scents of hearth and all things warm as it burned down to nothing but molten hellfire coals. Tables surrounded it, fixed again in sheets of scarlet stain with ample Nordic dishes upon the likely soft embellishments. Jack finds himself thankful in that moment that he'd at least eaten before he arrived, but it doesn't stop him from gawking at the grandeur of it all, how something so simple gives the finest air of regality he'd ever bare witness to. Meandering in musings so deep, he neglects to notice the small form gliding up behind him on soundless footfalls.

“I haven't seen your face around here before, are you new to Whiterun, or just by chance passing through?”

The sudden voice is almost successful in making Jack jump right out of his skin, and he's sure that the flinch that plays through his shoulders and spine at least is a horribly visible one. Great way to make a first impression in a mead hall filled to brim with battle hardened warriors. You got this, Jack. He spins on his heel, attempting to appear as if he wasn't just completely startled out of his wits for a split second-- only to find that his eyes are greeted with an empty space... until he looks down.

Standing before him is an incredibly tiny elven woman, unquestionably a Bosmer if her height was anything to go by. She's of darker complexion, like a Redguard, with wide magenta eyes framed by a surplus of thick dark lashes. Her hair was peculiar in style, shaved down on one side to caramel skin and fuzz while the other was longer, angled locks of chestnut brown that reached her collarbone only at it's longest point. A plethora of colorful tattoos contrast against the dark canvas of her skin, enriched by colors of deep byzantium, cerulean, and evergreen. Sweeping feather like designs that framed her doll-like eyes but flowed naturally back into her hairline.

“...Uh. H-hi.” He manages. Barely.

Way to make a fool of yourself, Jack. Spectacular.

She lets slip a small giggle and the mage will forever rue the day that he feels his face burn in turn. “Hi yourself, but I did ask you a question; you're not from around here, I take it.”

Jack swallows a little, shaking his head a few times as he runs a pale, lithe hand through the cluster of snowy locks atop his crown. “Yeah, no, I'm not. At all. I'm from Cyrodiil, actually.”

“Ooh, Cyrodiil.” She coos, bright hues alighting with her interest. “I've only ever seen Imperials coming up from the capital province in the recent month, what with the civil war and all... not that I don't realize other races live down there besides them but-- Oh, you know what I'm getting at.” The Bosmer practically flaps a hand at him.

He begins to open his mouth in reply, almost managing to make some sort of a sound before she pipes in yet again. Effervescent in the way that she talks, and talk she does.

“But anyway, what brings you to Jorrvaskr? It's not very often that we get a mage knocking on our door.”

It's with the mention of the mead hall's name that he take notice of just how little the mer woman is dressed. Clad in leather armor that's simple but intricate, practical and durable all at the same time, and crafted in a way that Jack can only recall ever reading about in scriptures. Bosmer leather armor is the stuff of legends. There's even a bow and quiver at her back, cast in the moonstone golden ore that makes a well known elven weapon far more noticeable. The swords braced on each of her hips don't follow however the theme, they're scimitars, the curved swords that the Redguards favor. Despite her small stature, she still manages to keep a powerful presence for just a little thing.

“Farengar, the court wizard, said that I should come here if I needed help, he won't give me any and he's sending me to look for this old relic in Bleak Falls Barrow--”

“Bleak Falls Barrow?” She interrupts, blinking owlishly in disbelief. “He can't be serious.”

“He is though.” Jack confirms bitterly, lips twisting down into a frown as he continues. “He's completely adamant that I go through and get it for him, something about his research and how it's going to help protect Whiterun from dragon attacks and yadda, yadda, ya.”

“Dragon attacks?”

The interjection of another voice -this one far more gruff than the bell like tune he'd been making himself acquainted with- causes Jack to whip his head in the direction of the sound. His sights land upon a man this time, or mer rather, he finds him to be upon closer inspection. Everything about him tells Jack that he too is no doubt a Bosmer, just like the painted elven woman beside him. The only questionable point being his height, for he stands at nearly 6 feet tall rather than the common 5 and up of his race. Tanned skin, hair a blue tinged slate grey that's pushed back and handsomely tousled, with a facial tattoo much like the elven woman's own. It was oddly placed however, and black in tone, stationed just above slightly puckered brows. The armor however is familiar, despite the curious weaponry that dons his chest and hip. Jack could say that he at least expected the broadswords swinging from the man's waist, but the boomerangs holstered over his chest were something else altogether.

He comes to tower beside Jack and the elven woman, who at least seems entirely unphased by his presence. “What's all this rubbish about dragon attacks?”

The magenta eyed Bosmer shrugs, glancing between the other mer and Jack as if looking for an answer to the question herself.

“Oh yeah, that's right, none of you have probably heard about it yet.” Jack quips, his tone reflecting the point that he's just come to realize that besides himself, the Jarl, Farengar, and the folks in Riverwood-- none of them have even the slightest inkling of what had transpired that day.

“Heard about what?” The woman asks, the worry easily heard as it threads itself into the musical bell chime of her voice.

“About Helgen.” Jack gives, unfortunately it was more of a clipped response than it was meant to be, but the thought of Helgen, of all those people dying... it makes his gut churn.

“Has-- has something happened? Is everyone alright?” The petite Bosmer presses again with her desire to know.

Jack swallows. “Helgen was... Helgen no longer stands as of just a few hours ago-- and here I go sounding like a grade A nutjob,” he definitely sounds like a madman, no one needs to tell him that twice. “but Helgen was destroyed. By a dragon.”

The stunned silence draws out between the three of them for a long period of time, and Jack wonders that maybe he by chance rendered the two mer speechless, or if by chance they were silently devising a way to properly dispose of him without trouble, because he's obviously completely and totally mad, and dangerous by some accounts, right?

Spring green orbs belonging to the male Bosmer narrow at him decisively, something acidic flaring in his glare. “Pig's arse! Do you take us for a couple of fruit loops here, mate? There's no way that a dragon--”

“Bunny!” Another booming voice interrupts, and this time Jack is completely unsuccessful in stopping his body from jumping at the sudden sound of it, and it shouldn't really-- the tone is hearty and warm. He really needs to stop doing that though.

The call comes from the mouth of a man who can be described as nothing other than a pure blooded Nord, a true son of Skyrim. He's tall like the grey haired Bosmer, with pale skin and shaggy mahogany hair, strong brows, and an upward curved mustache complete with a trimmed beard. His facial features were sharp, but not harsh, with an aquiline nose and the bluest eyes Jack had ever seen, save for maybe his own. The armor donned across his person however differs, made of heavy steel but reinforced with a metal that he can't quite name. It's ornate, with wolf fur and hide effectively worked between and throughout the armor itself with the lupine theme clearly visible. He too has scimitars on either hip, but much larger and far more menacing than the little Bosmer's own, and therefore better to make Jack gulp at the sight of them alone.

The man claps a large gauntlet clad hand down over the male Bosmer's shoulder, earning himself a pointed glare which he plays off with an easy smile. “Always so quick to form opinion, Bunny--”

Jack can't help the snort of laughter that escapes him upon hearing the tall Bosmer's name. Bunny? Is he actually serious? The little mage covers his mouth with a gloved palm several seconds too late, Bunny had already heard him.

“What's so funny?” He snarls, eyes scrutinizing Jack like he isn't worth the scum on the sole of his boot.

Jack, being the epitome of adolescent defiance, takes the bait. “”Bunny”? Really? What kind of name is that for a warrior?”

“It's a nickname you bloody dill!” Bunny retorts, not quite fuming but no doubt insulted. “And what's a magic using milk-drinker like you know about a warrior's name?”

“Jeez, calm down there, “mate”.” Jack mocks, he'd never been all that good where his judgement was concerned. Most people had a self-preservation instinct towards how they should speak when faced with a well armed individual who easily dwarfed him with his height. “And yeah, I do think I know a good name befitting a warrior, 'cause “Jack Frost” _isn't_ a totally fitting warrior name for Skyrim. _Nah_ , nope, not at all.” In comparison to “Bunny”, he was without a doubt the winner in that petty little argument.

Bunny's expression falls into something that speaks of satisfaction, goading on know-it-all teenagers like Jack is practically as easy as throwing his boomerangs. “You kiss your mother with that back talking mouth of yours, kid?”

Jack tries not to look insulted, and masks any trace of the less than useful emotion by fixing the mer with another glare and an undaunted step forward. “Excuse me?”

“Alright, alright, break it up.” The Bosmer woman pushes in between the two, tiny hands finding their shoulders despite the height difference to be better able to shove them apart. She glances between Jack and Bunny, setting sights on the taller of the two with a look of being more than just a little bit done with his attitude. “Cool it, Aster. He's not an initiate that you're testing, he came looking for help.”

She turns back to Jack, offering him an apologetic smile. Bunny follows her with his gaze, knowing better than to fight against her reasoning. One way or another, he knows that she always knows best, even if he won't ever entertain the idea of admitting such a thing aloud.

“So,” The Nordic man speaks up, relenting his hold on Bunny's shoulder whom is wrenching it from his grasp before steel laden fingers even have a chance to fully uncurl. “I am understanding that you came to us for help, yes?”

The mage gives a bit of a nod, moving his gaze from the elven man to the Nordic one. “I need help getting through Bleak Falls Barrow.”

Both Bunny's and the still unnamed Nordic man's eyes widen, looking at Jack as if he's grown a second head or that he's potentially more insane than what was initially thought.

“Bleak Falls Barrow?” They say in bewildered unison, loud enough to make Jack flinch. Did he say something wrong?

“We will be needing to speak to Manny about this.” The Nord muses, and without a second more wasted, he turns and strides off, waving a hand for the group to follow.

“Wait a second, who's Manny?” Jack asks, jogging to catch up with them and falling into step beside the slighter mer woman when they all turned to comply.

“He's our Harbinger.” She replies, looking up at him and speaking the foreign word to Jack like it should be common knowledge for him to know. He's rather well studied for his age, but “Harbinger” seemed to be one word that didn't make it into his extensive vocabulary.

“Harbinger?” He questions, hoping to be given a definition of the peculiar term.

“Is a bit like...” The Nord pauses, thinking for a moment. “Like-- Bunny, what is word I'm searching for?”

“A Harbinger is like a counselor, can't say he's a Guildmaster 'cause he's not.” Bunny answers for him, summing up the odd word for Jack with another that makes more sense to him. “We're all in charge of ourselves here, just like Skjor used to say.”

“Oh. Don't think I've heard of that before.” Jack replies, giving a bit of a silent pause as they continue on. “So can I call you guys anything? Like names?”

The Bosmer woman beside him giggles, politely covering her mouth with a hand to stifle the sound. “Well, that would be easier, wouldn't it? You already know Bunny,” She begins, gesturing to the tall expanse of a mer just ahead of her who huffs haughtily in response.

“Then this big guy is North,” She nods in his direction, which gives the man the opportunity to cast that same inviting beam of a grin over his shoulder at the introduction. That same warmth radiating off of him that Jack swears he could get to like.

“And I'm Toothiana, or Tooth as everyone calls me. Though my birth name is Thiandril.”

Jack quirks a frosty brow at her, thinking of the odd name that doesn't quite want to fit on his tongue. “Any reason for the name change?”

“She is very fond of teeth.” North informs.

“Collects them, actually.” Bunny adds.

Both of their manners seem completely nonchalant about the fact however, but Jack wonders. Are they human teeth? He doesn't know if he dares to ask. Of course he doesn't _mean_ to, but the look that passes across his features as he directs his gaze to the small woman is borderline horrified. Why teeth? He can't _not._

“You... collect teeth?”

“Mhm! Usually from a successful hunt.” Toothiana practically glows. “Sabercats, deer, and there was a giant we killed a while back.”

“And you'd forgo his perfectly good skull for some chipped molars.” Bunny gives offhandedly, feigning annoyance to cover the scant note of affection that tapers his voice.

“But just imagine what caused those chips!” Tooth chirps, speaking passionately about a love for teeth that Jack can't even begin to comprehend. “What he might have gone through, all the memories of his life on the plains with the mammoths, maybe he even had a family-- oh the possibilities are endless!”

Bunny snickers, trying unsuccessfully to sound fed up with her ebullience. “Oh, for the love of--”

“Something troubling you all?”

Jack hadn't even noticed that they'd descended a flight of stairs into the basement of the mead hall, walking into a long room that was just as rich in it's Nordic architecture as the gargantuan passage above. The mage looks for where the voice came from, and sets his sights upon perhaps the most peculiar looking little man he'd ever seen. Which was saying something, considering whom he was surrounded by.

He's short in stature, perhaps the same height as Tooth and considerably more pale, but at least not in comparison to the snowy white porcelain of Jack's own skin. He's bald save for a blond braid that runs directly down the center of his skull, whipping out like a tail over his shoulder at it's long end. His ears are pointed, elf like seemingly, and possessing eyes of chartreuse green with pupils only half full. Jack can tell that were the light to cast upon them, they'd turn to slits. His own gaze narrows as he realizes it, and sure enough upon his closer inspection, he finds etched into the contours of his face off white tattoos of tiger stripes. Running all the way down the expanse of his skull to what can be seen of his neck. Jack remembers Ri'saad telling him of these creatures when he traveled with the trading caravan to hone his skills, and he'd learned more about Elsweyr and her people than some of the scholars who studied in the land ever did.

“You're-- You're an Ohmes...”

The room falls silent at the admission, and the three Companions send looks between themselves and Jack bordering on the line of perplexed. The last thing they would have expected would be for a seemingly clueless youth like Jack to know anything outside of what is considered common knowledge. Their Harbinger is not within those bounds by any means.

The man that'd been pinned as an Ohmes -and whom Jack assumes must be Manny- lofts a brow at him. “Cat's out of the bag now then, whatever will I do?” His tone is heavily laden with sarcasm. “You've got quite the eye on you there, boy. Very few are able to tell that I am in fact Khajiit, Toothiana and Aster being the only ones since I came to Skyrim from Elsweyr a near fifteen years ago.

“However, what I am is not to be the topic of discussion. I have never seen you before, and it is a rare occurrence that a mage enters our hall. So, tell me, what brings you here?”

Despite the friendly attitude that's given to him, Jack feels that he would be wise to not push the man. Something about him commands respect, and he decides that obliging his gut instinct would likely be better than to not. “I came seeking help, sir.”

“Farengar aims to send Jack here through Bleak Falls Barrow.” Toothiana explains before Jack has a chance. “Alone.”

Manny's eyes widen all but a fraction, half filled pupils thinning to slits as his interest is suddenly peaked with the gathering of the new tidbit of information. “Is it safe to wager that it has something to do with his cockamamie research?”

“He says that he wants me to find this old relic called a Dragonstone.” Jack still doesn't have the slightest clue as to what it is, or what it even looks like. Talk about a fish out of fresh water. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

The feline shrugs, giving a shake of his head that makes the metallic armor -similar to North's in make- shift and come to life with noise. “No, and if I did, then I've neglected to remember, it appears. Why does he need this relic then?” He looks to the other Companions for an answer to his question, gaze shifting between the three. “What purpose does it serve his research to send a young boy with no knowledge of the region to gather it for him?”

“Evidently, both that batty court wizard and this boy here seem to think a dragon attacked Helgen, burned it to the bloody ground.” Bunny snorts, cutting in. “Farengar has said this stone is going to aid Whiterun against “dragon attacks”. Sounds like a load of horker dung if you're asking me.”

Jack doesn't even attempt to silence the growl that works through his throat at Bunny's disbelief, but he's certainly sure that he's got a growing list of elves that he never wants to see again.

“Well, he wasn't asking you, now was he?” Jack bites back, turning to cast a less than amused glare at the tall expanse of a Wood Elf. “I'm not lying. I know what I saw, I know that I almost didn't make it out of there alive and from what I know--” He drops off suddenly, swallowing hard as he thinks on it. Reminding himself of Helgen and of all the innocent lives that were torn asunder not even hours before. “No one else made it. So how about you show some damn respect for the people who lost their lives today, alright? Or am I asking too much of you?”

The look he's given from the elf is absolutely seething, and he steps forward, making like he's a hair-trigger away from giving Jack a piece of his mind when North casts a warning glance down the bridge of his nose at him. Bunny doesn't turn to see it, but his shoulders falter the minutest bit. The winter hued mage disengages before the mer has a chance to act on his impulses or to press the matter further.

“I know I am a good judge of character and this does not seem like a lie to me.” North gives, looking up to the Harbinger once more. “And you know of the old tales-- the prophecy--, Manny. You may not be Nord but not even you cannot be denying it. The state of Skyrim is just as the scrolls foretold, our sons and daughters will be spilling their own blood.”

Manny runs a hand over his chin, sharp optics turning down and away for the briefest of moments to consider. A sigh breaks his silent brooding, and he shakes his head once more. “That I cannot deny, no...” His gaze flickers to Jack's direction then, pupils blowing wide once more as he studies the youth before him. “If I were to ask the Jarl of this matter, would he confirm what you've told me, that Helgen lies in ruin?”

Jack nods rather adamantly, quickly then. “Yes, he would.” He assures, absolute. “He's already sent aid to Riverwood because they're vulnerable without walls.”

“Then I will have to ask him while the four you are away, won't I?” Manny declares with an ease that makes it sound like the decision was given for him.

“You can't be serious. You're really going to believe him just like that?” Bunny demands, his outrage now obvious. Jack has to try and not look smug in turn.

“If you have such an issue with it, Aster, then you are free not to go.” Manny offers, a knowing glint in his eye however when he looks Bunny's way. “Though, I would highly doubt the Nordic heart of your father -the very same heart that lies in you- would allow you to abandon your shield brother and sister so readily.”

The tall mer falls silent at that, lips thinning before a reluctant nod finally rolls his neck. “We better be getting paid for this.”

“I'll see that it comes out of the Jarl and Farengar's pockets,” Manny complies, as if he's well aware that the Jarl and his court wizard will pay them in full for their trouble. “As it is, the two of them have young Jack here sent on a wild goose chase.”

Toothiana steps in, rolling her eyes as she takes Bunny's arm in her dainty hands. “Oh, come on, Bunny, it won't be that bad.” She tugs at him a bit, batting long lashes at him with gemstone eyes set aglow. “Besides, it's been a while since we've cleared out a ruin, let alone a crypt.”

Jack glances back to Manny one last time, inclining his head in a show of appreciation.

“Thank you.”

“And you are welcome.” The feline answers, accepting the thanks with a minute smile. “Now, off with you. If you set out now then you should be cleared of the place by first light tomorrow morning.”

“What are we waiting for then?” North cuts in, booming with his excitement as he slaps Jack on the back, nearly sending the lad hurtling face first into the floor. “This could be fun!”

North ushers them all off to gather provisions, for while the journey to Bleak Falls Barrow may be short, what waits within the ancient Nordic crypt is particularly deadly; halls crawling with the risen from their tombs, restless and enraged. Their strength doesn't necessarily pose so much of a threat as the sheer quantity of them does, and their tenacity-- their ability to not falter until they've been struck down permanently... that does. By himself, Jack would have no hope of coming out alive like Farengar seems to believe he had the ability of. The aid of several experienced warriors however would be able to make sure that he made it through to tell the tale. Hopefully.

It's with this same hope that he and the group of four depart from Whiterun, the sunset chasing them as it bleeds the sky crimson and orange, washing the copper grasslands with fading rays of golden light.

***

There was no such thing as an uneventful day in Skyrim, Pitch was becoming convinced. News of the freshly fallen Helgen hadn't exactly been well received, especially when it was the Guildmaster himself who carried the heavy burden of information upon his shoulders into Falkreath with him. Sending word however was just one small step in the plan to eventually getting the location back into semi-working order, and as all matters of business and the well-good of the citizens of Skyrim were a point of interest to him, it was to be expected that to a degree his involvement would be a necessity-- thankfully many of the officials involved were as aware of it as he was. The mer couldn't help but find the stares and not so whispered speculations of the regular people upon his approach to be a constant grating against his nerves despite that fact.

Then again, Nightingales didn't exactly make house calls, and there was really only so much that he could blame them for. After all, how often do you find a towering and armored Dunmer in your midst bearing news of recently departed townsfolk that he, himself, had no part in?

He hoped that it wouldn't be a so frequent occurrence that he'd lose his intimidation factor, but what he'd seen in Helgen, and what had been _speculated..._ itwasn't exactly giving the mer any particular hope.

Thankfully, his work in Falkreath was quick and ultimately painless. There wasn't much that one could do considering the warning that had parted from his lips: “Unfortunately, I'm under the impression that the fate of the fallen was due to powers well out of my hand, I've done all that I can.”

It gave him an easy dismissal, if nothing else.

***

About the most comforting thing that Pitch can find himself to be in at that point is home. Or, home away from home, if he was fighting with technicalities. Riften however danced with it's effervescent tendrils of fog, and the tall shade of a Dunmer can only smile as it settles over him -pitched in the amber glow of an oil lamp or two- like a cooling balm against the punches his journey had given him.

Few and far between as they may have been, he feels welcomed and at ease here far more than any other location. Embraced, he was, by the well wooded and damp town as he slipped between luminous spools of window light and the shadows that clung against his hide like well known companions.

Thankfully, the few comrades that he did keep were here, hidden away in the secret folds of the thieving town. It's not them that first greet him however as he enters The Ragged Flagon, instead he's greeted with the ever present sound of dripping water, and the noticeable air of poppy ale that threads through most and all of their cheer.

His quiet moment of peace however is soon disturbed, for not even a fraction of a second later, he's welcomed by his fellow thieves in arms. High voices clashing at him as their tune echoed throughout the cistern, and he's only left to shake his head as he pulls himself away from the door, slipping into the throng with simple ease.

“Welcome home, Boss,” Brynjolf greets, smirk tilting up the corner of thin lips. “Seems you might of brought the fog in with you, are you sure you didn’t drag a curse back here too?”

A well missed and familiar voice, despite the noise, refocuses his attention, and the mer turns to greet the man of flaming hair and eyes of muted jade with a smirk and a defiant raise of his chin.

“If I told you I might have brought a dragon on the back of my heels, would you think me none the wiser?” He asks, thankful for the fact that the man was yet to be privy to the thoughts rounding about in that ever chaotic skull of his. He gives one more final nod to his fellow thieves, smirking even further as he catches more than a few familiar gazes cast in light befitting for the low glowing atmosphere.

Who was he to judge, it was a night worth celebrating, after all. Perhaps when all was said and done, he'd join them in their merry-making.

“Dragons? Well that would make for quite the tall tale, wouldn’t it?” The redhead quips, huffing the scant breath of a chuckle.

“One would think.” The Guildmaster gives, sighing despite himself. The Nord however becomes the beacon of Pitch's focus, and he indicates with a shift of his gaze that there were matters to attend to privately between the two of them in order for his mission to be completed in full. Reporting in to his second hand was almost a part of ritual, therapeutic, in a sense. He wouldn't be able to relax until everything was done and set in motion.

Bryn doesn't miss a beat thankfully, catching the way the Dunmer of towering proportions shifts his phosphorescent gaze.

On soundless strides that are as much a part of them as the hearts within their chests, the two walk. Brynjolf following after Pitch with arms folded over his chest where leather Guild armor gives a feeble creak.

As much as conversation is enjoyed between the two, the mer can surmise that Brynjolf knows witty banter and idle fancies are not to be the only subjects laid out on the table. The very one in which Pitch relieves his load on as the weighty treasure that had been retrieved moves from an ashen hip and onto the fixture. He watches the Nord drop down into a chair across from him, a lingering glance passed over the well yet hastily wrapped parcel between them before he yields, giving his undivided attention to Pitch once more.

“Before we discuss the fatness of our pockets, I've much to tell you of my journey. You will listen to my fool's errand, won't you, Bryn?” He settles across from the man and his strewn table full of questionable content. Golden hues giving them a cursory glance before returning back to Bryn. There are words forming on the tip of his tongue, but he tethers them with teeth as he slumps back in his own chair, long limbs stretching well past the center notch of worn table legs across the stone laid floor.

“Fool’s errand was it?” A brow lofts again, something challenging about the way it arches, the way he shifts his weight as if supposing before Pitch even has the chance to regale him. “Go on then, I’m listening.”

“Yes, a fool's errand. I wasn't aware that apparently sending me out on field missions nowadays also included babysitting mongrels who don't know their ass from a teakettle.” There's a bit of a pointed look in the man's direction, although Pitch very well knew that despite what the Nord could tell him about his tasks and the things in which his services were needed, it didn't mean that everything was to be predicted.

When the look is cast upon Brynjolf, he merely smirks and shrugs. If he’s taught his former apprentice anything it is to expect the unexpected. Though Pitch can at least find some kind of small victory when what he says next shuts the Nord up instantly.

“I stumbled upon a rather frosty mage along the way, a deranged one, at that. Spewing this and that about Helgen and dragons.” Pitch's hand gave a rather flippant flop as he carried on, not giving the other much opportunity to butt in. “Sure enough, the place was in shambles, but I've not the slightest idea as to why or how it came to be. In all my travels I've yet to come across something quite so...” There was no word in any language that he knew that could honestly compare.

The news of Helgen actually being in ruins causes Brynjolf to furrow his brow in concern, for even he is not immune to the heavy weight of violent and unnecessary death. It’s all the reaction he gives to the matter however, a single curt nod in Pitch’s direction inviting the Dunmer to continue on.

“Falkreath isn't happy with the news, but we've got lots in their corners, we'll be sure to hear of their progress when and if it comes. For the meantime, I'd like to send a few scouts out in the direction of our rather museful bard.” The sneer is clear in his expression, a show of white teeth against a usually dark canvas of lips and skin. “Azura help us if word of something like that gets out to the masses...”

That quiet skepticism that Pitch sees underneath brows weighted in concern then flourishes into sheer confusion, Brynjolf’s head craning on a tilt as he looks at his employer as if he’s been ingesting straight moon sugar.

“... You are kidding, aren’t you?” Brynjolf asks, tone entailing of the disbelief that had previously been an expression worn in silence. “It can be done but just… Why? Did that batty little mage drive you mad too?”

“Would I spare the time of a fellow thief on a feeble little _joke_?” It's a query forced out between clenched teeth, and the mer practically vibrates with the man's audacity to question him of something that, quite honestly, would have been more accurate to claim him as many years earlier in their history. Pitch knew he was mad, as did Bryn, but this and that were two entirely different points and thus not to be pulled into the same equation.

He knocks back his chair as one lengthy limb moves to rest on the lip of the table, supporting his seat with nothing but two precariously balanced legs. Golden eyes having shifted skyward, perhaps praying to whatever deity he seemed appropriate to question his life choices on further, before returning to his old adviser with a look a little more firm.

Brynjolf too reclines, mimicking his lofty counterpart’s position, complete with his own set of rather long and leather clad legs propped up on the table. He makes no move other than shifting his weight a bit to make himself more comfortable, beryl hues following Pitch's path of sight. Perhaps Brynjolf too should pray to whatever gods that are there glaring down upon them… But, then again, he’s never been the religious type.

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” He replies, easily and not so much as batting an eye at the way Pitch poses the question with a tight jaw. Well aware is the mer that his fellow Nightingale knows when and when not to test his temper. This is hardly a time for him to tread lightly and so, the Nord thief holds fast against the near glower set upon him.

“Panic only gives opportunity for cheap gold, striking fear into the hearts of the people of Skyrim may be a hobby of mine, but I've not the slightest interest in decreasing our monetary gain by letting a fool send everyone into chaos. I want people watching him to prepare for the opportunity to shut him down. Even you, Bryn, can find the idea in that appealing.”

Pitch watches as the younger man mulls the information over with a pursing of his lips, fingers stroking thoughtfully at his closely cut beard for a few beats of silence.

“Do you really think the lad will be that much trouble though? We’ll send word to any of our lot stationed in Whiterun hold to keep an eye on him regardless… But from the way you described him it hardly seems like he’d make it to Riverwood on his own without being felled.”

Pitch at least gives the Nord a considering wave of his attention, breathing deep the warm air of the hearth fire that accented the scent of poppy ale and warmed his gut with the comfort of home. Gilded hues however lower, leaving no light to cast in the depths of his gaze as he stares at the man between the space of an arched sole and the stretch of a toed boot.

“You know as well as I do, Bryn, that it's only the good men that fall so easily.”  

 


	3. Knowledge Unbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, Pitchmun here. I'm deeply sorry about the delay of this chapter, unfortunately Jackmun and I had set up a schedule for publishing chapters right around the time of a convention in our area. We both had quite the hefty cosplay load, and it fried both of us for a good period of time. Jackmun however was a great sport and kept pushing me to continue even when writer's block had us both in a pinch, and it's only due to some busy summer schedules that have kept this chapter at bay. However, I give my deepest apologies for the long wait, and here's hoping that I'll be able to keep up with the demands of this story for the future~ In the meantime, enjoy!

The Barrow coalesces up and out of the mist and snow of the mountains, emerging in sweeping arches like an ancient and fossilized spine born from a fanciful creature who's grandeur might have even rivaled the winged foes that now plagued the land in it's own time. Jack could have sworn though, at least upon his approach, that he'd glimpsed the large spanning crypt at least once before in passing. Viewing it now as the sun dipped low in the sky and the twin moons chose to climb over it in their full forms, he was certain. He'd come down the road from Helgen and into Riverwood, after all. Just a few hours prior even, but he'd glanced upwards to scan the skyline edged with its craggy, majestic peaks and there the Barrow had lain. Rising up in much the same way that it would have for the Nords of ancient Skyrim. It's a sight that both takes his breath away and forces him to swallow. The fortress certainly did not welcome visitors with it's foreboding loom, even as he and the three Companions with him draw ever closer to its maw.

His lengthy breath of hesitation however didn't go as unnoticed as he had hoped. Toothiana tilted a gemstone gaze towards him, deceivingly delicate digits tugging the hood of her cloak close-- the heavy fur lined article one that matched those that her fellow Companions had donned, and one of which protected them all from the whipping snowy and bitter winds that barraged them all with a fury of mountain cold that Jack could say he'd never known.

“Are you alright, Jack?” She called to him, her voice fighting against the sudden blinding gust of snow laden air that frosted her lashes in the instant just before she blinked. If she hoped to rid herself of the glittering frozen fractals, it was unfortunately a useless endeavor.

Were it not for his acutely attuned ears however, he likely wouldn't have heard her at all, and the mage wonders how it is that they all still were moving through such heavy and brutal winds. Perhaps they were all used to it, and it was just him that wasn't quite so accustomed to the elements.

“Yeah,” The boy nods stiffly, attempting to keep the very slight pointed tips of his ears nestled snugly in the soft wolf fur within his borrowed and hooded cloak. “The Barrow is just a little...”

“Scary?” The mer finishes for him, her tone thankfully lacking any sort of mockery. “I think it is, at least. Bandits are more than likely guarding the outside, according to what I've heard from the townsfolk that were reporting in that is. It's to be expected though, crypts like this one do tend to have a generous amount of gold and valuables hidden away inside. Then of course there's the draugr, too, but those are _really_ nasty.”

“Scary. Yeah,” Jack's lips thin as he glanced up towards the Barrow that was beginning to stretch out overhead, growing closer with every step taken. “That's certainly an appropriate word for it alright...”

Scary was an understatement as far as Jack was concerned, though he was thankful for some of Tooth's minor musings. They made the situation look a little less grim, even if she likely was speaking the truth. The Barrow however was impossibly massive, and even beginning to fathom what it held within its impenetrable walls was a task only the mighty would dare to muse. The walls were beginning to crack with age, but held impossibly tall and proud, ruling with a silent power that every fortress in the frozen land seemed to possess. Not even the Imperial City, in all her majesty and breathtaking beauty, ever made him feel like this. Within her walls Jack felt safe, and secure, well off enough that he would venture out to trade... but security here was an anomaly, and even brandishing hope of it was a useless endeavor when faced with the timeless and old crypt.

He wasn't about to let the others know however, lest they find amusement in his cowardice. Being thought of as such in front of the trio of seasoned warriors didn't rightly appeal to him.

“Jack?” Toothiana called to him once more, a note of question raising in her voice before she even was aware of the boy's now listening ear. “Were you...” She hesitated, brows pulling down in an expression far too troubled for the wild lines of her exotic features. “Were you really the only one to make it out of Helgen alive?”

Even with the hopeful glance sent in his direction, it was evident she was expecting the worst.

Lying however had never been one of Jack's more prominent features, his parents had raised him to be a truthful lad. Something like the question that was imposed on him however was something that he didn't have even a smidgen of a chance of fibbing, especially when by the time that they return to Whiterun, the entirety of Skyrim would know of Helgen's demise. Another pang of regret races across the swirling torrent of his mind, just in the moment before he can provide the Bosmer woman with an answer; a little poisonous whisper that hisses to him that those people he'd seen-- they may have had a chance, they could have gotten out alive had he not been so utterly incapable of using his magic properly. He could have done _something,_ Jack was so sure even despite the logistics of it that easily promised his death no matter the outcome, but...

Perhaps it would have been better that way.

Jack's unable to meet her fretful amethyst hues, but he gives a nod, a single confirming motion in the space where words still fail to reach his tongue. “...Yes. That I was.”

He's given an instantaneous reaction, her gaze turning downcast, falling into the shadow behind the thick frame of her lashes. A somber acceptance, even if it was an unfortunate one. “Oh... I see.”

The mage regrets telling her instantly, because if there was one thing that he hated seeing in anyone, it was someone looking crestfallen, especially when _he_ was the cause. The nagging guilt pangs at his chest again, back in the blink of an eye as it threads up through the baseline of his attenuated frame to tighten in his chest.

“Wait... You didn't, y'know,” The thought hits him suddenly, brutishly even, and he gives a somewhat open flail of his hands in a mediocre display of forming a thought with his extremities alone. “have any family there, did you?”

It harkens Toothiana's attention, and she glances back to Jack, blinking away another sharp flurry of snow and ice with a shake of her head. “Thank Y'ffre, no, none at all. My family-- what's left of them, that is-- are all back in Valenwood, some even in Hammerfell on my father's side. Thankfully, they're safe.”

Safe. The word resonates through him like a placating balm, one soothing enough to quell his nerves that by this point are already well frayed with tension, and a pitiful amount of sleep that he had completely and utterly forgotten about needing. Let alone the cold. Luckily, none of it had decided to root viciously into the marrow of his bones just yet.

He can't help but wonder however what would have happened to her family, though he doesn't allow himself to think on it for too long.

“But, what of Bunny and North--”

“No family to speak of, mate,” The aforementioned mer answers, voice raised well and high through the winds that still pick up to batter against the four of them. “All been gone for a mighty long time, fifty years give or take, I'd reckon.”

It was a significant amount of time to have come and passed, enough so to dull the agony of grief enough that perhaps it would explain why Bunny's voice was still an unwavering timber. Perhaps it was the fact that he had to raise it over the howl of the winds to be heard that masked any of the long and likely buried pain. Jack doesn't know which one would be the truth for the steely haired Bosmer's situation, but to be fair, he wasn't quite sure he even wanted to know to begin with.

North answers Jack's cut of inquiry next, the gales falling into something less than biting whips for the briefest of moments so that he could speak without straining his voice.

“I never knew my parents,” he informed, scarcely sounding like anything ever became bothersome to the wind bitten Nord. “Grew up in Honorhall Orphanage over in Riften and I left as soon as I was of age.”

The boy thinks then that maybe he wasn't the only one running. It does little to ease the ache of regret and loss, however. That constant guilt stifling his senses with throat clogging determination. All the frosty little mage can manage is a stuttering nod in turn, having learned with Alvor not to give his apologies for things that he couldn't have done anything to prevent. To his right, Toothiana nudges him gently in the arm with her hand, apparently having seen the expression that crossed his features, offering to him a smile in compensation. The warrior huntress' appearance is a complete contrast to the gentle warmth that she gives to him then. Deceptively welcoming. Jack finds that he likes that in her, along with the sweet and melodic tune of her voice, but if he's learned anything in this land thus far, it was that he should never judged based on first appearances alone.

That asshole of a Dunmer was an exception.

Jack is left with little time to waste thinking on such matters however, for the sprawling crypt's summit greets them as the four of them rounded the next corner. A staircase is carved into its base, leading up onto a plateau that spans long and vast underneath impossibly massive stone arches that stand out starkly against a nighttime sky darkened with furious storm clouds. Glacial hues scan the building laid out before him, taking in all that he can in those few silent moments of awe that come with seeing something both breathtaking and terrifying for the first time. The three Companions seem to be in a somewhat similar state of mind, though potentially less so than the mage. It occurs to him then that they're probably used to the sight of it all by now.

“Come on,” Bunny breaks the silence with a firm call, slicing through the howling winds and heavy snow. “No sense in standin' aroound gawkin' at it when there's work to be done.”

“Best be staying alert.” North tosses over his shoulder towards Jack in somewhat of agreement. Of course the boy knows well enough to do that, he certainly doesn't need to be told. The Nord's voice however is still just too warm and hearty for Jack to snuff though, so he takes the warning from him with a single nod of understanding, his haughty adolescent indifference could wait for a more appropriate time.

The trio of warriors are far more quiet than Jack expected them to be, moving forward and ascending the staircase on silent footfalls only accentuated by the tiniest of telling crunches of snow beneath armored soles. Even North, in all his heavy armor, is able to move like a phantom with minimal sound from steel plates and chainmail. Jack had been well aware that he was in the midst of warriors the moment he'd step foot into Jorrvaskr, but it settles on him thickly even more so now as he watches them work seamlessly in the belly of their element. To think-- Jack hadn't even seen them kill anything yet.

He doesn't have to wait long for that however, as a startled and unfamiliar voice carries out on the high winds of the threatening storm.

“Hey, over here! Looks like we've got company!”

Jack snaps his head up in just enough time to see North cast a glance at Bunny and Toothiana, no words exchanged between the three of them before they move into position like set chess pieces well worked into set groves across the board. Perhaps even like a well oiled machine that has no need to waste breath on anything other than a second wind.

Bandits are stationed outside the Barrow's mouth just like Tooth told Jack there would be, and he counts five in total seemingly coming out of the woodwork, pooling from behind stone arches and merging into existence out of raging white-out conditions.

Clearly the three Companions see them far clearer than Jack is able to, a brigand approaching with mace drawn felled instantly by something that zips through the air to paint the fallen snow crimson with the lifeblood that blossoms from his throat. Cornflower hues dart to find the object that felled the man, only to spot it when it returned back into its owner's leather clad possession. Bunny clenched the boomerang tight in his grip, leaving Jack to think that it would most likely be an excellent idea for him to stay clear of the Bosmer's line of fire.

Toothiana however is nimble on her feet, and Jack catches sight of her as she dances and easily dodges arrows sent flying her way from another archer who is unfortunately not a Wood Elf. Her expertise with a bow is like nothing the boy has ever seen before, elven crafted arrows cutting through whipping winds only to bury themselves deep within the hide of her opponent's armor. On the battlefield, she is everything that her kindness doesn't give insight to, and she makes use of that ferocity that Jack has scarcely heard of let alone seen outside of great ballads and old legends.

The clash of clanging blades mingling with war cries aplenty is where Jack's attention pivots to next, finding North locked in a battle with a brigand in possession of a double handed war hammer that could easily shatter bone were it to come down just right. North effortlessly deflects each blow with a finesse that dances circles around the offender and his slower weapon, twin scimitars are fleeting, quick, and vicious as they cut, slice, and stab at the bandit with a ruthless but jovial glint. He makes quicker work of his opponent than Jack had ever thought possible, but then again, he's but a boy who's hardly seen anything more violent than the Chorrol guards putting down a petty thief... That was, up until Helgen of course, as well as the violent display staining pristine snow in front of him.

He knows that he should most likely be trying to do something, it doesn't matter that the three Companions have the little skirmish sorted out all on their own. The feeling of uselessness churns beneath his skin as gloved palms crackle with a chilled fog of magicka, fingers twitching as he makes ready to strike, to try and help in any way possible--

The gelid sting of smooth steel to his jugular stops him instantly.

“Just don't scream and we won't have any problems, alright?”

It's the distinct timbre of a Nordic man in Jack's ear, one he doesn't recognize and one that only makes the thrum of his hearbeat shatter through any semblance of safety he may have had. He gasps, and the blade presses closer, slicing skin enough to draw a single bead of blood that Jack can feel trickle down over his adam's apple. The Companions are locked in combat, they don't even notice him and he can't even threaten to make a sound. There's a blade to his throat and it's drawing blood, pressing tighter until his neck stings as he tries to gulp down a breath of icy panic stricken air.

This is it.

He's going to die, isn't he?

Dying however wasn't an option for Jack any longer. He swallows again, thickly, as resolve firms in the heart racing staccato that beats deafeningly at him in the cavity of his narrow chest. For once he allows his magicka to flow freely, swelling in his gloved hands until he can feel it freezing the woolen fabric of his robe halfway up his arms. With whatever space there is left between his back and the man's front, Jack presses into, craning his neck as far away from the insistent blade as he possibly can. Hands that the man had neglected to hold down clench and unclench, and he locks his jaw, closing swirling glacial hues as he reaches behind himself in one fluid motion. Fingers land on what he suspects is his captor's face, and Jack barely hears the shriek that leaves the man over the maddening hum of his own heart.

It's a good thing that he isn't able to hear the man's screams either, for the blood curdling cries of the man's sheer _agony_ would likely bring his poor abused heart to a standstill. Jack clings tightly to whatever part of his assailant that he can, at least until the hand holding the blade to his throat grows stiff and unmoving, until there's no more breath on the back of his neck.... and the warm flesh underneath his fingertips turns _cold._

“Jack!”

Algific beacons snaps open, still wild and wide with his distress as Toothiana calls out to him, bringing him back into the present.

She darts over to him, bow carelessly tossed to the ground in favor of placing dainty palms on either side of his face. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Jack can only manage a disjointed nod, as much as he can being stuck with a sword frozen at his throat. Toothiana wastes not a moment more in helping Jack out of the tight bind that he'd gotten himself into, pulling him free of the blade that had been slicing into his flesh with ill intent not even seconds before. It still stings a bit, but Jack is far too high on adrenaline to take much notice.

He glances over his shoulder at what once had been a living individual, mouth gaping at the sight that greets him.

The Nord that had made to end his life is still standing, still in the same position that he had been in when he'd put the blade to Jack's neck... Only he's frozen _solid,_ ice like magicka swirling through flesh and blood and bone until it was marrow deep with nowhere else to run. The look of absolute horror etches onto the man's face makes Jack's gut curdle sour, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to stop the retch that pulls at his throat. Unbeknownst to the trio, Jack's seen such a face before, only smaller, female, and so very undeserving of such a fate. He was only protecting himself this time, but the resemblance to the crime that had driven him to Skyrim-- the very one that would plague him for the rest of his wretched life-- is what makes him feel so horribly ill.

“Woah, that's the nastiest case of frostbite I've ever laid eyes on.” Bunny chuckles, stepping up beside the frozen banding with a single flicking finger, making a mildly impressed expression when the man doesn't shatter into a million pieces. “Seems you aren't as useless as tits on a bull after all.”

Jack doesn't even have it in him to even glare at Bunny, he merely heaves a long sigh as the high of adrenaline leaves him far too quick and the deep exhaustion that runs his weary bones ragged reminds him of the insistent need to sleep. However, still, it has to wait.

North comes to stand beside Jack rather quickly, evidently having seen just how much the grotesque scene before them troubles him though he's not the slightest inclination as to why. His gaze shifts between the ice statue of the Nord and back to the snowy mage, lingering on the lad long enough to repeat Toothiana's own inquiry. “What happened, Jack?”

“He uh...” The boy drops off, swallowing again past the thin slice on his throat. Deep enough not to scar but noticeably painful now as adrenaline leaves and sharpens the reality. “He... came up behind me, and put his blade to my throat. I think he was going to use me as ransom against the three of you, or something like that-- I don't know.”

“And the ice was... the ice was _you?”_ Toothiana asks, incredulously.

Pearly teeth tether his bottom lip, worry it as he nods in shame.

“Mind my askin' what you are again, kid?” Bunny asks, still looking over Jack's handiwork. Handiwork that the lad is less than proud of.

“I'm a Breton, if that's what you mean.”

“You sure?” The mer chuckles, finally returning his emerald gaze back to Jack. “'Cause that was some Altmer bullshit that you just pulled.”

Jack grabs onto the comment like a lifeline, using it to quip back at the Bosmer in the hopes that it will set his mind back into the working order that he needs it to be in. “Pretty sure that I'm too short for that. But hey, you're way too tall to just be a Bosmer, so maybe I'm a High Elf, who's to say really? Not you, obviously.”

Spring green hues narrow at him, and Bunny broadens his shoulders as he approaches Jack like he has the intention to outright obliterate him. “You're not very smart, are you, mate?”

“Smart enough to save my own ass.”

“Uh-huh, right. So are you telling me that you'd of survived without us?” Bunny crosses his arms in front of his chest, raising a brow expectantly.

Truthfully, Jack can't tell him that. If the three of them had not been keeping the other bandits at bay, then Jack had no idea how he would have survived the encounter. As useful as his seemingly endless well of magicka could be, he needed a somewhat clear shot, just like what he'd had with his assailant. Being surrounded by six bandits trying to kill him would have spelled certain death and he more than likely would have frozen himself in the process.

Jack's lips thin however, gaze piercing as he looks at Bunny. Still, he relents, sighing and shaking his head in a simple gesture. “No. No, I'd probably be dead.”

“That's what I thought you said.” The note of triumph in the Bosmer's voice makes Jack second guess himself about whether or not punching him would have been the better thing to do.

Toothiana lets slip a sigh that nearly makes Jack cringe, pressing a leather clad hand to her face. “Are you two done?”

The look she casts between the two of them speaks volumes more than words ever could, and it's successful in silenceing the both of them. Her silent fury apparently just as potent as what she doles out on the field of battle, and thankfully the two of them know better than to mess with that.

“Yeah uh, nope. We're done here. Sorry.” Jack says, agreeable and not turly wanting to argue with the already fed up Bosmer woman.

Toothiana's gaze lingers over the two of them for a second longer, wind picking up once more to beat against them, bringing down more gusts laden with snow. That none too pleased expression then fades from sharp angles and back into the soft and easy features that Jack finds far less intimidating. She leans down, picking up her bow and resting it in lieu of narrow shoulders and offers both previously feuding males a smile.

“Well, if that's it then we should get inside. No sense in standing out here to freeze when there's work to be done!” The little mer's voice takes back it's musical bell like chime, and she shrugs at them nonchalantly before she skitters off in the direction of what Jack assumes to be the entrance of the Barrow. He has no idea though, the snow makes it impossible to see two feet in front of him let alone all the way to the other end of the stone plateau.

Bunny is next to follow her without question, and North gives a gesture that says that he and Jack should follow as well. The mage contemplates asking if Toothiana always gets like that, but he makes the decision not to, better to his pointless ponderings to a minimum and mostly to himself.

He can't help but chance a glance behind him however as he walks away. It's a gaze set upon the man he'd frozen to preserve his own life, a ghastly sight that stills on him a feeling of... Jack isn't sure if there's a word for it. There is no guilt in him for protecting himself, for living, but...

But why did he have to be reminded of _her_?

***

“Okay, so what do we do now?” Jack questions, impatience tapering the edges of his already exasperated voice. They had all entered the ancient tomb not even ten minutes ago, and it had been... surprisingly quiet, silent even. Which, as far as the Companions were concerned, was a call for alarm, especially so when they find the bodies of two bandits decomposing fireside at the far end of the Barrow's massive first chamber. The corpses were stripped of any health and stamina potions, Bunny having tossed a bottle of the life saving concoction to Jack who very nearly dropped it due to still quivering palms.

Cautious footsteps that Jack had followed in lead the group down several winding passageways completely devoid of life, no draugr, no bandits, not even a single vermin skittering amongst their toes. They were met with little more than the silence that had embraced them since the beginning, and it was only in the distance that you could hear the bitter howls of the wind just beyond the cavern walls. Yet caution and careful steps couldn't be the solution for everything, especially so in a crypt fitted with traps and heavy barred gates. Unfortunately for Jack and the trio of warriors, there were some quite deadly puzzles to betwixt them.

“We open the gate,” North declares. “simple as that.”

The aforementioned fixture the lofty Nord referred to was blocking their only way of continuing on through the Barrow, and at least as far as Jack can tell, it's impenetrable. That and the lever meant to open it being thoroughly booby trapped, so unless they can set a seemingly uninvolved line of pillars up against the far wall in the correct order, whomever decides to pull the lever would be shot clean through with hundreds of little poisoned darts hidden behind unassuming slot in the cavern walls.

So, when North tells Jack that it's just a simple matter of opening the gate, the lad can't help but raise a dark brow at him in speculation.

“It's not as difficult as you think, Jack.” Tooth points out, standing beside one of the pillars nearly as tall as she was, her gemstone gaze scrutinizing the walls up and behind Jack. “See the carvings on the wall there? That's the order the pillars need to be set in. It's really simple, actually, most just don't tend to realize that and it gets them killed.”

Jack glances over his shoulder at the mention of the carvings, spying three of them adorning the wall just above the door, seemingly minor details embossed in silver in the front of slate slabs hidden in what seemed like gaping stone mouths. On each wall mounted tablet, a carving of an animal came into sight. The first and second pieces were adorned with snakes, while a fish of some sort rested on the third. Good job, Jack. You're ever so observant.

“Oh, so it would just be the same exact... Code on the wall-- Okay, yeah.” Jack stammers, face turning red with his embarrassment for not seeing something so obvious sooner. Really, it's a wonder he comes from such a well educated family. “Sorry about that.”

Bunny regards the boy with a snort, rolling his eyes but thankfully not goading him any more than that. The mage suspects that the Bosmer doesn't want to test Toothiana's temper twice, and to be frank, it's an opinion he shares. Jack would honestly prefer yelling and screaming instead of her silent fury.

The mer woman in question shrugs off the apology and places no air of mockery upon the snowy haired youth, instead merely concerning herself with getting the pillars into the correct positions to allow their entry. For a puzzle so old, the pillars move with surprising ease when she spins them into place, double checking them quickly once she's finished to make sure they're exactly as she wants them to be.

“Alright then, Jack.” She turns her gaze to the youth, glancing between him and the lever protruding from the floor-- the one in which Jack hadn't even realized he was standing by. “Would you pull that for me, please?”

For a split second he thinks she's kidding, the potential of being impaled with dozens of tiny poison darts not sitting well in his already uneasy stomach still quivering from the near death experience only moments before. He realized rather quickly however that she isn't, lips curling as he offers the stutter of a nod.

“...Y-yeah, sure.”

It takes him a moment to turn, gloved and nerve dead palms grasping the lever. He yanks it once, finding that unlike the pillars, the lever is somewhat sticky. Perhaps from minimal use.

“Need some help there, princess?” Bunny teases, and Jack hears Tooth bat at his arm with her hand.

The lad pauses for a split second, fighting back the scowl that wants to wear lines into his features. He plants booted feet on either side of the lever and gives it one more final pull, and it finally gives. Thankfully he'd braced himself enough that he doesn't stagger when it whips back, it certainly would have been a rather embarrassing little mess up if he had.

The gate raises almost instantly, settling with a startlingly loud clank as it retreats into its slot above the stone archway. North moves forward first, taking the lead for the party of four, prepared with his strength and size for any brunt of surprise attacks that could lie in wait before them. Bunny brings up the flank with Tooth and Jack in the center, the slight mage trailing along behind North-- which, he reckons, is a far better idea than being near the steely haired Bosmer with a matching and less then pleasant personality.

Silence continues to ring in Jack's ears, so much so that not even the violent winds from beyond the walls reach him and the Companions any longer, the maddening hum only broken by careful strides placed along the ancient stone floor.

“I do not like this,” North murmurs, hushed but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Is almost like...-- Like someone came through the Barrow before us.”

Jack's head works on a tilt, brow furrowing. “If that were the case then why were there bandits stationed outside?”

The mahogany haired Nord hums in though at the lad's inquiry, thinking on it aloud. “It would have been someone who is very good at being quiet--”

“Like a thief.” Toothiana suggests.

“Or an assassin.” Bunny adds.

Jack casts a look that can only be described as horror over his shoulder, more at Bunny than at Tooth. “Is that actually a possibility though? I mean, not many assassins have been mentioned since Emperor Uriel Septim VII was assassinated by the Mythic Dawn, and that was back two-hundred years ago during the Oblivion crisis. And since when has anyone heard hide nor hair about the Dark--”

“The Dark Brotherhood has a presence here in Skyrim, Jack.”

The mage turns his attention back to North then, blinking incredulously, like he doesn't want to believe it to be so. “ _How?_ I thought they just dropped off the face of Nirn all together.”

“None of us know why, or how,” North says, holding a hand out to tell the group to halt as he tests a wooden spiral of stairs with his foot, which only leads them deeper into the tomb. “But, they are not what they once were. They are still very dangerous, however, I do not believe this is their work.”

They had descended the stairs to find the bodies of several freshly dead skeevers, shot clean through with arrows of... Of ebony make. Jack remembers where he last saw arrows fashioned like that, and he tries hard to shake the through from his head. Plenty of archers use ebony arrows... right?

“An assassin would have left enemies alive to waken us to make their job easier,” The tall Nord kneels down beside one of the large felled rodents, bracing a gauntlet clad hand against it as he uses his other to yank the arrow free of its body. He holds it up to what little light there is in the small room, inspecting it carefully. “This would be the work of a thief.”

“That does make a lot of sense actually, if you think about it.” Tooth muses, taking the arrow from North when he offers it to her. “Like I said earlier Jack, when we were coming up the mountain; crypts like this one are normally ripe for the picking.”

“Still, we should stay on our guard,” Bunny points out, arms folded over the ornate leather cuirass he wears as he directs his attention down the hall where it branches off from the room. “Thief or not, they're still dangerous, if their methods of elimination we've seen so far say anything. I don't know about you lot, but I'd rather make it out of this Eight forsaken tomb in once piece.”

Jack nods his head in silent agreement, better off he doesn't say something to the Bosmer anyway, less of a hassle to deal with if Bunny can't find something about the frosty youth to pick at.

“But of course.” North agrees, nodding.

They inspect the small room over, checking for potions primarily or anything else that could be of use to them. Tooth finds a magicka potion and offers it to Jack, as a just in case circumstance. Politely the take it, storing it away in the pack that Alvor gave him, still resting against his hip. He won't need it, he knows that much, and doesn't even want to know what the outcome would be if he drank it when he has yet to find the bottom of his well of natural magical energies.

Carrying on through the ruin eventually brings them to a room that opens up with high ceilings, moonlight filtering in through the massive hole in the ceiling that leads up to snow covered mountains still whipping with bitterly cold winds. The room itself would have appeared as just another normal vast open space sitting along many others of its kind in the dangerous ruin-- were it not for the massive body of an eight legged nightmare that lies dispatched on the ancient stonework floor.

“What in Oblivion is _that?_ ” Jack grimaces. He'd of course fought a few rather large spiders when he was escaping from Helgen's dungeon... But nothing like the behemoth of an arachnid sprawled out in from of him and the trio of relatively unphased Companions.

“Giant frostbite spider,” Toothiana replies. Jack glimpses a shiver run through her spine as she comes to stand beside him. “They're really disgusting.”

“Says the mer who collects _teeth._ ” Aster quips, though his tone lacks the scald he uses on the mage. A faux mockery and affection is instead what threads through his heavily accented timbre.

“You can't talk when we _both_ used to make our weapons out of _bones_.”

The pair fall into little more than idle bickering with North putting in his two cents every now and again. Jack however takes little notice of them, especially as he pans his glacial gaze over the body of the spider, even going so far as to test nudging one of it's spiny legs with a booted foot. Thankfully, it doesn't budge, but the motion draws Jack's attention to something metallic catching the minimal moonlight seeping in from above.

Arrows. Ebony arrows. Sticking out from the felled animal in a plethora of different angles, all fatal points of entry. Cautiously, Jack reaches a hand forward to wrap a palm around one of the projectiles and pulls it free from the spider's hide, making a particularly nauseating noise that causes the snowy youth to curl his upper lip in revulsion. He inspects the weapon in hand however, looking it over with a dark furrowed brow, as if willing it to be some type of arrow other than the one that it was. Unfortunately for Jack, just glaring at it does nothing about what it's made out of, or what he's connecting it to.

Or _who,_ rather.

Surely there had to be more than just one archer that used arrows of this make, right? It can't just be that one insufferable Dunmer... The thought of running into him again coaxes Jack into locking his jaw, grinding pearly teeth against one another. Truly, the last thing he needed right then was to run into the elf once more, dealing with Aster was pushing his limit well enough as it was. No reason to add more fuel to the fire of his patience.

He discards the arrow, allowing it to fall from his fingers and watching for a beat after it hits the ground with a barely audible noise of impact. The Companions are still conversing and Jack finds that he doesn't feel like garnering their attention, needing a bit of a breather, for a few moments at the very least.

Relatively silent footsteps pull him around the room, making note that the entire expanse of it is almost entirely covered in webs. It still succeeds in making him shiver, despite their spinner being dead-- Jack however had never been the biggest fan of spiders, really.

His attention is drawn to a focal point as he aimlessly traipses about the room however, finding another body of humanoid shape half wrapped in spider's silk. As Jack approaches he can gather that the corpse is fresh and that of a Dunmer male, felled by another arrow of ebony. He thinks nothing of it for a moment, other than that he doesn't want to run into that damn elf again. That's when he takes a closer look, however.

Sitting perched on the fallen Dunmer's chest is what appears to be... A carved foot of some sort, like that of a dragon, or it's claws in particular, made from what he can only describe as pure gold. Jack quickly kneels beside the mer's body, reaching forth to take the golden trinket within his grasp.

“Uh, hey guys,” The boy starts, raising his voice when he calls for the trio, standing once more on his feet with the odd treasure still clutched in his hands. “I think you better come see this.”

They pause mid conversation and direct their attention to Jack once more, North's features in particular lighting up when he sees what the boy holds within his gloved hands.

“Shor's bones! Would you look at that,” The Nord exclaims as he strides over, gingerly taking the piece when Jack offers it to him. “I have not seen one of these in-- I do not know how long!”

Jack doesn't understand his excitement in the lead, at least beyond the fact that the claw seems to be carved in something with a hefty price. “...So, what is it?”

“It's a claw,” Bunny informs, making it seem as though it should be obvious to the snowy youth. “Used for opening up some particularly dense puzzle doors in crypts like this one. Not all tombs got 'em, but some do, and apparently this Barrow is one of them.”

“Is it going to be booby trapped like the damned pillars were?” Jack asks.

“Nah, it won't. Usually.” Aster supplies, which isn't much of a comfort for Jack, but he'll take it in order to avoid more of the Bosmer's snark.

Toothiana tilts her head at the object in North's grasp, reaching small and slender hands up to touch it carefully. “Wait,” She says, fingers brushing over a folded up piece of parchment attached to the palm of the claw, something that Jack had neglected to notice. “What's this?”

She unfolds the parchment, opening it to read whatever is concealed within. Whatever it tells makes her delicate brow furrow.

“It just says “We send our regards.” that's it.” She flips the note around, displaying it for Jack and her two shield brother's to see. “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”

Aster's face falls into something less than pleased, lip curling. “That we know _exactly_ who blew through this place before us? Yeah, I am.”

“So, who was it?” Jack dares to ask, not quite liking being left out of the conversational loop of information.

“It is not important, Jack.” North reassures, something about the Nord's tone however cluing Jack in on the fact that he wasn't going to budge on the matter no matter if he pushed or not. “What is important though is that we move forward with caution, I believe the burial rooms are just ahead.”

Toothiana sighs, long and very much in discontent. “And that means draugr. Stay on your toes and watch your back, Jack. When I said they were nasty, I _meant_ it.”

The lad nods, certainly not needing to be told twice on the matter. “Right... So, we should get a move on then, huh?”

“That we should, frostbite.” Bunny says, sidestepping the body of the Dunmer man that still lies motionless in the archway. Jack definitely isn't a fan of the new nickname.

Regardless of what he thinks though, the mage follows after Toothiana and North, exiting down the hall after the mer in the lead. He can't help but wonder what Aster meant about knowing exactly _who_ had come through the Barrow before them though... And if the masked Dunmer he had the misfortune of crossing paths with at Helgen had something to do with it.

***

What had been planned as a silent crawl through the burial rooms had all gone according to plan... That was until Jack triggered a pressure plate in the floor, activating a panel loaded with spikes that swung out in an attempt to impale him. He'd managed to dodge it thankfully, but the ear shattering bang it made against the ancient stone of the far wall upon contact was enough to wake any and all draugr in the vicinity.

The already enraged undead crawled forth from their tombs, flesh colored soot and mummified by centuries of cold, dry, air. Adorned in ancient like armor, some more than others, which Jack could only assume meant their power was vastly different than their less than decorated companions. Perhaps the most disturbing thing about them though was their eyes, a feature set deeply back into their skulls and aglow with an icy blue rage. That... and it almost seemed like they could _talk_ , murmuring little things in a language that Jack could scarcely recognize.

The Companions had leapt into action instantly, years of training and fighting (as well as their own mistakes) having taught them to react quickly, again becoming that well oiled machine in the blink of an eye. This time however, the numbers of draugr are far too much for just the three of them to handle, their opponents clambering down from the top of the hall as well as either side, growling and cursing in a language unknown. Jack was lucky enough to take a few of the deep frozen bastards with him before their numbers became too much and a hasty retreat was made.

Thankfully draugr were not the smartest monsters to roam through Skyrim's wilderness and her ancient places of eternal slumber, as ducking down into a crawl space left them to run past in their search, doubling back moments later only to give up entirely on their chase. The entire group heaved a silent exhale of relief as the sounds of disjointed footsteps faded into the distance.

Jack braced himself for any harsh criticism from Aster about his inability to keep quiet (or from anyone else in the group for that matter, as he'd nearly gotten all of them killed), but none came. He was thankful for that and supposed that all of them were far too elated with actually being alive to give a dam about reprimanding him for his slight. Perhaps it would come later, but for now Jack's only concern was seeing if Farengar had indeed sent him on some wild goose chase; to see if the dragonstone was actually there within the confines of the ruin.

Now they'd come to a room that stood out remarkably more than the rest, with it's long, narrow, and low hanging ceiling. Jack could see right to the end of the long corridor and what looked to be a door at the end, large and carved from black slate. Drawing closer however makes the boy notice that all is not entirely what it seems, odd rings were seated into the fixture, three of which depicted with different animals. Below, a circular cut stone with three holes dug into its surface, almost looking like... like a keyhole--

“Ah, there it is!” North exclaims, laying a hand on one of the rings of the door as if testing it. Giving a push, which much to Jack's surprise, moves. “Jack, the claw please.”

It's not like he could forget about the damn thing, sitting in his pack and bumping against the sharp jut of his hip for several hours now. The stupid thing is heavy and he's sure he'll have a bruise from the experience, but he willingly takes the golden claw from his back and all but shoves it into North's waiting hand.

“Thank you.” He gives absently, having already flipped the claw around to study the code embossed into its palm. Jack, once again, hadn't noticed.

“Alright, let us be seeing here.” The Nord mumbles, his hand reaching up again to push the first ring into action, a harsh grating noise emitting from it as it turns. He repeats the process with the other two smaller rings until he has them set in the correct order; a bear, a moth, and an owl.

He pushes the three prongs of the claw into the slotted keyholes of the bottom circle and turns. The door comes to life instantly, circles spinning before it begins to move back and down, receding into the ground below.

It occurs to Jack, in the moments before the door is drawn back, that whomever came in ahead of them wouldn't have been able to get past the door. He casts a gelid glance over his shoulder, eyes flitting about the room, past Bunny and Tooth, and to all of the dark places that could be used as hiding spots. Surely no one could hide that well, there was no way, and yet Jack is met with nothing but empty spaces between the shadows and cold ancient stones.

His face scrunches in thought, wondering if the heavy door was really an obstacle for whomever it was who cleared the first half of the barrow for them. Then again, perhaps the draugr had eaten them. He isn't about to say anything is set in stone however, but he'll leave it as it is, simply choosing to remain on his toes.

“Jack!” Toothiana's bell chime of a voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He turns back around to find her standing in front of him, amethyst optics blinking up at him curiously. “You alright? You zoned out there for a second.”

The lad nods, rubbing a gloved palm over his face that only proves to remind him of his weariness and that he shouldn't over think so much. “Yeah, I'm good. Sorry, just lost myself for a second there.”

She smiles in that easy way of hers at him, shaking her head as she gives a slight tug to the sleeve of his robe-- the one that he _still_ doesn't own. “Well, we won't be stuck in here that much longer. I'm pretty sure that this is the last chamber, but still, be on your guard.”

Another nod of acknowledgement rolls through his neck, he can't be arsed to give any sort of verbal response. Instead, he simply follows after the petite woman, throwing glances this way and that as he walks.

He doesn't expect the breathtaking view that greets him, and he gasps as it comes into full view, a sense of awe that he for once feels that he and the Companions share. The pale light of dawn sweeps in from above, washing the cavern in a cold swash of light, underground waterfalls roaring with life as they spill over stone and into torrents of a river that rages past. The centerpiece of the cavern is something Jack has never seen before, a platform carved of stone eons old, atop it sits a wall, vast and dominating with the Nordic carved face of a dragon embossed into its center. Jack hasn't a clue what it is, but it leaves him awestruck nonetheless.

The group approaches, caution still worn across their shoulders like a second skin. They seem to be the only ones in the cavern, and Jack figures to take it as a good sign, but he's reminded of Toothiana's warning to be on his toes. He makes a point of doing just that. Or tries to, for the closer he draws to the center platform and it's massive wall, the louder a previously nonexistent chanting becomes.

“Do you guys hear that?” Jack questions, hardly even able to hear himself speak. It almost sounds like he's underwater, voice bubbling past in and endless wave of noise. Any answering queries back are drowned out and gone unheard, for the chanting only continues to grow louder as he steps up onto the platform.

Lights coalesce from seemingly nowhere, weaving around Jack as if to draw him closer with whispers of knowledge and power. He briefly acknowledges that the wall is carved with some type of peculiar script, like scratches. It slips his mind however in favor of one set of scratch marks that glow in vibrant blue hues, like the color of the ocean, or the sky at night, vast and all knowing.

The boy moves like he's in a dream, walking forward on steps that are not his to control, hand outstretched towards the scratches that thrum and whisper with power and promises. It seems like centuries before his fingertips touch the wall, the glowing abrasion that he feels is a word, that some unknown force _tells_ him is a word.

_**F U S** _

A force which he doesn't recognize invades his mind's eye, flooding his head with what feels like all the knowledge in the world and none at all at the same time. It's both a feeling that he wants and one that makes him want to turn tale and run; warm soothing caresses and shredding daggers.

Something blasts him back from the wall, and he lands flat on his back, skull connecting with the floor. _Hard._

Darkness claims him.

***

A tremor works through him, shaking erratically through his shoulder and down his back. It's a fretful, worried, tremble, like that of tiny hands grasping tightly into his shoulder. Maybe that's what brings him up out of unconsciousness, or perhaps it's Tooth's voice, chiming frantically like a school bell.

Or maybe it's the images of fire and death in his mind that chase him back into the waking world, that wake him with a hacking cough, like he's suffocating in the smog of destruction that had lied in wait behind his eyes.

Either way, Jack blinks icy beacons open, looking around with his chest heaving. Toothiana is above him, leather gauntlet clad hands upon his shoulders. He can see Aster and North hovering over him as well, equal expressions of worry wearing lines into their faces.

“Oh thank Y'ffre, you're awake.” She says, a relieved sigh heaving her narrow shoulders. “You hit the ground pretty hard... We thought we lost you.”

“I...--” Jack swallows, pulling himself into an upright position with the Bosmer woman's help His head absolutely _swims,_ but he manages none the less. “What happened?”

“We don't know, mate,” Bunny shrugs, that fretful expression still tilting his sharp features downward. Jack thinks that it's an odd look on him, but makes no comment of it. “You just started walking towards that wall, all trance like, asked us if we heard anythin'. We thought you'd gone bloody mad or somethin'.”

“Then you just...” North trails off, making a gesture with his hands that mimics how the boy had flown back from the wall upon touching it. “Were thrown back.”

“The important thing though is that you're alright.” Toothiana says, standing and offering Jack a hand. He takes it, pulling himself into a standing position with her assistance, thankful for it especially when it seems like he can't nearly manage the motion on his own. He'll be feeling this for a few days yet, that's for sure.

“That, and we found something that may be of use to you,” Bunny cuts in, puling something out from behind his back. It's a large tablet, cut from sandstone-- map like in appearance.

“Is that the--”

“Dragonstone? Yeah, that's it.” Aster just about beams. The Bosmer gestures over his shoulder at the ground, the body of a heavily armored draugr is seen lying crumpled and severely mangled. “Tough bugger, that one, but we got the stone from him. Now we can get out of this dank little hole in the ground and back to Whiterun.”

“...I just. Thank you.” Jack says, finding that he can't help but be more than thankful for all that they've done, especially since he'd certainly be dead without them.

“It is what we do, Jack.” North gives, voice that hearty and warm timbre that Jack knows now that he enjoys. His large hand grips Jack's shoulder and he smiles, an expression that Jack can't help but return.

“Now, let us be getting back to Whiterun, yes?”

The way out is easy enough, a flight of stairs that wind up and around the back of the wall and into a stone carved hallway. The group of four, Companions and the winter hued mage, find their way out and into the crisp early morning light of dawn.

 


	4. Spoken Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, we're so sorry for the long wait, we've both been busy between our personal lives and dealing with some really horrendous writers block between the two of us. Thank you so, so much to each and every one of you who have stuck with us since we first posted this fic up until now and to all those who continue to stay
> 
> Without further babbling, here is Redemption Bound Chapter Four: Spoken Word!

The first hour and a half of early dawn light is spent trekking back to Whiterun’s gates, to Dragonsreach, where Farengar, and Jarl Balgruuf wait to either hear of Jack’s return or the disappointing news of his failure. The frigid winds of the mountains swirl around the four as they make their descent into the low lying grasslands, near flat plains that touch all the other Holds around Whiterun’s center point of position; from the Reach all the way to Eastmarch. Their small party banters on idly, the conversation light, effervescent in its nature despite the lot of them having just spent an entire night crawling through a draugr infested tomb. North carries on about business back at Jorrvaskr, with Aster throwing in occasional suggestions --chuckling at his own jokes all the while when he makes them. Tooth adds to the party banter too, of course, occasionally turning back to Jack in attempts to include him in the conversation, even though it’s far out of his realm of knowledge. He gives brief answers accented with soft and tired smiles, slightly strained, and eventually Toothiana gets the picture, still casting worried glances at him every now and then as they walk the road back to Whiterun.

Truth is, it’s not just the pounding headache that’s bothering Jack, even though he’s pretty sure the impact gave him some sort of concussion. It’s more of the thoughts running through his currently throbbing skull that plague him, and for once they are not heavily laden with suffocating guilt. Instead, he ponders fervently over _what_ exactly happened to him in the cavernous underbelly of Bleak Falls Barrow. Did something attack him? Was he put under some kind of spell? Why were the three Companions left completely unaffected, why did they say he acted as though he’d been completely taken over by something _else?_

A million and one questions bat at Jack all in the same moment, becoming a jumbled mess of humming babble that he no longer has the strength to even begin to try and sift through. He even attempts to convince himself that he no longer cares about the matter, that it had been nothing more than a freak accident, a strange happening that would never occur again in his lifetime. Funny thing is, it actually may have worked… At least if it wasn't for that all consuming presence of _knowledge_ pressing at him with unrelenting persistence. It was the very same as it had been in the cavern, as he stood entranced before the massive wall. A word, whispering to him in a language seemingly as ancient as Aetherius itself, first uttered from time’s gaping maw.

It was as if his mind never quit nowadays, remaining a constant and ever shifting beast that weaved its way around either impossible things or guilt that brought the young mage boy back to his knees. Even now, Jack has no idea whether or not he’s thankful for his minor reprieve of guilt or if he finds himself far too disturbed by these newer developments. It only proves to be another pondering that is much too difficult for him to whittle down, instead he decides that turning his attention back to the trio of companions who walk slightly ahead of him is easier, their small party now coming up on Whiterun at long last.

Toothiana glances back over her shoulder, offering Jack one of her gentle smiles. “Is the walk helping your head at all? You did hit the floor pretty hard back there.” 

Jack nods. “Yeah, a little bit.” though not really, the question even reminds him that he does indeed have some sort of head injury. He gives his shoulders an experimental roll and winces. Yeah, those ache something awful too.

The Bosmer’s delicate brow creases with her concern, lips thinning. “I should take you by Arcadia’s Cauldron once it opens for the day, see if I can’t find you a good healing potion or two.”

“I--” Jack is instantly shaking his head at the offer, because last time he cared to check, achy and sore all over didn’t count as hurt. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, I really don’t expect you to--”

“You just sustained some pretty severe trauma to the head and it’s a wonder your skull isn’t cracked… You’re even luckier to be _alive,_ ” Tooth points out, dropping back to fall into step alongside Jack, a hand finding his shoulder where deceivingly dainty fingers splay over the rough, heavy fabric of his robes. “That seems like grounds enough to me to at least make sure that you’re alright. So just let me, I’d rather make sure you’re fine rather than find out a week from now that you’ve died of brain rot.”

Her concern strikes Jack as odd, even though he knows it logically shouldn’t. Anyone who could be considered a decent person cared about the well being of others, right? He shouldn’t be bewildered by the fact that Tooth is walking stride for stride with him, _worrying_ for him.

But, he is.

He is, and it leaves the ice mage wondering just how much of him is worth such genuine and caring emotion-- and just like that, he can feel the guilt seeping back in to flood shallowly over his still very prominent confusion. Divines, he really is having a day and the sun hasn’t been up for more than three hours.

“... Alright.” He answers finally. 

“Good!” the lithe little Bosmer chirps, giving Jack that intoxicating smile comprised of immaculate teeth and shimmering amethyst eyes. He returns it, though not nearly as wide by any means but still relatively at ease for the way he’s feeling.

The wind batting at them now through the golden painted plains seems almost nothing after having come down from the mountains, it can almost be considered playful. Jack feels it ripple through his hair like gentle fingers, breathing it in deep as the heavy scent of fresh cut wheat and earth fills him with a calm despite the biting of its chill, leaving his lungs feeling light and free on the exhale.

Bewildered because for the first time in a what has been far too long, that breath feels like the sigh of relief that he’d been waiting on, the ease that he’d longed for. It’s a respite that he doesn’t expect to settle upon him so readily, especially not in lieu of recent events and his own morbid ponderings, but he accepts it in an almost greedy manner nonetheless. He even dares to allow himself to start believing that things may just be looking up from here on out.

Unfortunately for Jack, that may only be wishful thinking.

 

***

 

It’s not long until the three Companions and their mage client arrive back at Dragonsreach, the massive final chamber of Bleak Falls Barrow significantly taking off the edge of the initial awe that had first encompassed Jack when he met with the Jarl and Farengar the previous day. It’s done little to soften his annoyance with the court wizard however, perhaps having even sharpened it with his head trauma - now ebbing thanks to Toothiana and her ever present care.

The dragonstone is tossed onto the table with a rather disruptive thunk, pulling Farengar out of conversation with a hooded woman standing next to him, both having been poring over an old dusty tome. The elder mage looks up bewildered, eyes first landing on Jack and then flitting to the lesser than pleased trio of warriors at his back, then finally to the massive inscribed stone. His eyes widen, mouth gaping and then closing as he tries to form words. Jack cuts him off before he even manages coherency.

“So I found your stupid stone.” he definitely didn’t know he could sound like that. Not exactly a rage, but boy, it certainly did sound dangerous coming out of him. “But, I would have died if I didn’t have these three Companions to help me, and I _still_ nearly died. I want them paid for their troubles, and if you refuse then I’m sure their Harbinger will have a bone to pick with you about it.”

“Woah, easy there, frostbite--”

“No.” Jack cuts Aster off, voice short. “You dragged my sorry ass through that entire crypt and got me out alive, just let me make sure you get what you came for.”

The lofty Bosmer looks like he’s going to speak up again and Jack glimpses North stepping forward out of the corner of his eye, lips wearing into a tight line on his face when a large, comforting hand comes to shroud his lithe shoulder.

“Let us not be so harsh with the poor wizard, yes?” the Nord presses, gentle but firm enough to make Jack second guess the manner in which he lashed out at Farengar. “I am certain that Manny already came to you about payment?”

Farengar nods, quite jerkily, at that. “Oh, yes, and the Jarl saw to it that your payments were delivered to Jorrvaskr not soon after your departure to the barrow.”

“See, Jack?” the massive gauntleted hand on the Breton boy’s shoulder moves to pat him on the back, this time without nearly knocking him face first into the floor. “There is being no reason to get so up in arms, the Jarl respects the Companions, he would not forget to compensate us.”

Jack wants to say something, possibly to the effect of how careless it was of this court wizard to send him off into a living corpse infested crypt knowing full well that he may not have come back at all. A childish part of him wants to yell and scream about the wrongness of it, about how that shouldn’t have happened.

But, it wasn’t like he valued his life anymore than Farengar did, right?

The snowy youth instead settles with a long drawn out sigh, shoulders shifting with the motion and eyes forcibly shutting for a moment as he attempts to steel himself against the unknown feeling welling in him. He shakes his head and re-opens his eyes, cornflower gaze narrowing once again on his fellow magic user.

“Sure, that’s all fine and dandy, but I’m still expecting my--”

The large jangling coin purse shoved into his chest shuts the lad’s mouth instantly. His hands are quick to catch it, dropping his gaze to look it over. That sure is a _lot_ of gold.

“Two-hundred gold should suffice, should it not?”

Jack opens his mouth to perhaps give some sort of smart and scathing retort as he stows his pay away in his satchel, tongue clicking on a would be syllable only to be silenced in the process by a frantic shout sounding from behind him and the Companions.

“Farengar! Oh, get out of my way, the lot of you!” 

Briefly the mage notices the slight Dunmer woman shoving her way past the Companions as the Jarl’s housecarl, Irileth. Dark skinned and leather clad, with hair as fiery as the crimson pools of her eyes, both fitting shades of red to match the low rumbling flame of might and duty that seemed to flicker in the center of her being.

There’s terror written on her face clear as day however, and Jack doesn’t have to wonder about its cause for long. 

“A dragon has attacked the western watchtower.”

The air is suddenly thick with silence, even the guards in the main hall fall silent with the weight of the grim development. Jack notices all three Companions stiffen out of the corner of his eye, Toothiana covering delicate hands over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“Really?” Farengar sounds far too enthusiastic about a matter so grave, eyes alighting with his excitement. “What was it doing? What was its behavior like?”

Jack can hardly believe his ears. Here is the whole of Whiterun in danger and all this fool of a wizard can think of is the dragon’s behavior patterns.

Like, really?

Irileth looks more than appalled as well, opening her mouth to speak but Jack beats her to the punch.

“Are you kidding me?” his crystalline gaze narrows at the elder mage, hands twitching in outrage, a barely withheld spell sparking within gloved palms. “There is a _dragon_ threatening to burn Whiterun to the ground with everyone inside and all you can think about is its-- its _behavior?_ ” 

The look that crosses Farengar’s features next is one of insult, as if he can’t believe Jack doesn’t see it his way.

“But my research--”

“Is completely based on _hypothesis_.” Jack points out, still not relenting. “I’ve seen what dragons can do, okay? I was at Helgen when it was burned to cinders. There is no way to stop them, no way to reason with them. They _destroy_. That’s it.”

Irileth steps forward then, giving a nod to Jack-- a silent request for him to stand down. “This is a kill or be killed situation, Farengar. There is no way around it.”

Jack watches as the Nord stiffens, perhaps in an attempt to hold onto his resolve to push for what he wants. He falters then under the unwavering stare the housecarl is casting upon him, sighing out long and heavy in defeat, no words spoken in protest.

“Good.” Irileth nods, a knowing motion that says she’s an expert in shutting the mage up. “Now, the Jarl is expecting the both of us,”

She then turns to Jack, gives him another nod. “And he has requested your presence as well.”

For a moment, Jack wants to ask why, even going as far as to open his mouth and dropping it around the empty note of a question. He remembers rather quickly the important role he plays in all of this; the sole survivor of Helgen, and therefore the only one out of anyone in Skyrim -perhaps the whole of Tamriel- who knows what a dragon fight is like.

The boy gives a jittery nod to the Dunmer, her gaze lingering as she pulls away, exiting the room at a brisk walk with Farengar trailing after her in his defeated reluctance.

The sounds of booted feet coming up behind him is the only thing that snaps the boy’s attention back into focus, turning around to face the trio of Companions.

“Wait, aren’t you guys going to go back to Jorrvaskr now? I mean, you’ve got your payment--”

“This isn’t about the money, Jack.” Tooth says, fine brows furrowed, feathered tattoos crinkling with the fretful expression that doesn’t fit her face.

“Whiterun is in danger now, the whole of Tamriel even.” Aster points out, stepping forward from his shield brother and sister. “This is our home, and we're goin’ to protect it at all costs.”

The embarrassment of being outright foolish hits the Breton youth, and he nods in agreement, hoping that it will hide his realization --though more importantly he hopes it hides his mounting fear. The last thing he wants right now is to go head to head with a dragon again, and especially not so soon. The mere thought bringing back the heat of the fire against his face, the bone chilling roars and thundering calls. Blood curdling screams melding into garbled choking and the sickening crack of bones, the squelch of flesh and sinew--

“Jack,” the jarred mage nearly jumps when the ever increasing familiarity of North’s hands encompass his frail shoulders. “Gather your bearings, yes? We will be meeting you upstairs when you do.”

Jack nods and North gives his shoulders another reassuring squeeze before releasing him. The three Companions depart, walking past Jack with a passing looks as they make their way upstairs to the waiting and no doubt panicked Jarl Balgruuf.

Then he is alone, his only company the homey crackle of the roaring fires lit throughout Dragonsreach. He takes a deep, steeling breath, rabbit heart fluttering wildly in his chest at the prospect of being the only individual who has a chance at saving an entire city from such an awful fate. It’s terrifying, having such trust placed in him when he himself is such an unsure and frightened thing. He’s a boy just barely a man, and he didn’t ask for any of this.

Yet here he is, the entire existence of Whiterun riding on his ill equipped shoulders.

Another breath and his frame shakes on the exhale, leatherbound digits coiling in the heavy woolen chest of his stolen robes, borrowed fur cloak shifting around him as if to be a reminder of how poorly it fits -of how much he just doesn’t _belong_.

However, his belonging in Skyrim’s harsh reality is not of importance right now. Whiterun’s well being takes precedence.

He casts his eyes about Farengar’s study as he breathes, grounding himself the best he can. Though, he does notice something seemingly out of place. Was there not another person in the room with them? A hooded woman standing beside Farengar, poring over an old tome at his desk, if he recalled. Her image is fuzzy in his mind's eye, but Jack is sure he saw her. Absolutely sure of it--

“Jack!” 

Aster’s voice echoing from the stairwell snaps him from any further ponderings of the mysterious woman he thinks he saw.

“Coming!”

He stares another long moment at the empty space behind Farengar’s desk, and then sighs, shaking his head. Perhaps he truly is going crazy, and the sad thing is that it wouldn’t be so far fetched an accusation. 

He has no more time to waste on idle and troubled thoughts however, Whiterun needs him, as insignificant as his help may just be.

 

***

 

The conversation is already into full swing by the time Jack decides to join the party. Farengar passes him by, leaving to go back to his study, more than likely sent away by the Jarl himself. The ruler in question seems to be having a rather in depth conversation with Irileth, his housecarl. His body language reads as calm, but Jack can see the way worry and fear light his face in the warm glow of the chandelier overhead. Meanwhile, the Companions stand by, attentions briefly cast in Jack’s direction as he comes to stand beside them. Maybe he won’t be seen this way.

“Ah! there you are.”

Jack flinches when the Jarl redirects his attention upon him. Perhaps he was hoping to just be counted out of the equation completely, but that, and every other little thing as of late, is only thin hope.

The youth steps forward in a manner that seems shy, shoulders hunched as he tries to make himself look as small as possible. It’s something that he’ll definitely kick himself for later, for not even his studious parents raised him to be so sheepish a lad.

“While I congratulate you for bringing back the dragonstone unscathed, I’m afraid that we cannot waste time on ceremony.” the Jarl feigns calm very well, but Jack can see through him with an ease that would make most slightly uncomfortable were he to mention it. “I assume Irileth has informed you about the new developments?”

The mage gives a single nod, attempting to straighten up his posture to match up with Balgruuf’s composure. “Yes, my Jarl.”

“Good,” the Jarl nods, a deep breath taken in and exhaled long and strained. “ _Good._ ”

A brief silence passes, one that has Jack feeling how thick the tension in the room is, shifting uncertainly on his feet, the soft leather of his soles creaking with the subtle movements. He glances from the floor to the Jarl and then back again, wondering silently what the next course of action is, but he still doesn’t feel it is his place to open his mouth unless he’s spoken to first. So, he waits, in that suffocating blanket of silence. 

“Then,” Balgruuf starts up again, making Jack jump the smallest bit with the suddenness of his tone. Though warm, it does little to calm the on edge boy. “You will understand that it is you I want with her when she goes to fight this dragon.” 

He swallows. Divines above, he _knew_ that was coming.

“... I-” Jack takes a moment to breathe, to muster up the courage to answer. He’s doing his damndest not to tremble. “I understand.” 

Balgruuf however does seem to notice Jack’s uncertainty, and he softens, even if it’s the smallest bit.

“How old are you, my boy?”

The question seems odd, out of place even, and has Jack quirking his brow a moment at the Jarl, confusion marring porcelain features.

“Eighteen… But why the sudden curiosity, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Merely confirming my suspicions,” Balgruuf supplies, folding his thickly muscled arms over his chest, shoulders losing their stiffness as he attempts to appear more casual, more open to Jack and his plight. “You are very young, but also very brave. I was not much older than you when I became Jarl, did you know that?”

Jack’s lips thin. He shakes his head, telling both of how he had no idea how when Balgruuf became Jarl, and that he truly does not agree with the Nord’s claim. Jack Frost is not brave. He is no more than a frightened child who has been thrown into the thick of things against his will.

“... But, facing a dragon is far different than becoming Jarl, and I cannot even begin to fathom what Helgen was like for you,” the Jarl seems a bit lost, like he doesn’t know where he’s exactly going with this, so much so that Jack just about gains the nerve to speak up and ask what he’s going on about. “What I am trying to say is that… Right now, you are Whiterun’s only hope.”

That is enough to stop Jack dead in his tracks, for assumption is a great deal different than actual fact. Yes, he had assumed that he was the only survivor, that he was the last alive that had the chance to save Whiterun hold… But actually hearing it spoken aloud? Now that shakes the boy to his very core.

All Jack can do is remain silent, meeting the Jarl’s gaze head on when it shifts to him. It takes a moment, but he nods, a somber understanding of what must be done to further Whiterun’s survival. The Jarl returns the gesture, no words needing to be passed between them.

“Irileth will be waiting at the gates for you once you are ready. Gather your bearings whilst you can.” Balgruuf’s words are meant to sound harsh, Jack is sure, but they instead come out like he’s sorry in ways that can be scarcely fathomed; like he’s saying a final farewell to a soldier being sent to his death.

The dread that swells in the frosty youth’s chest then, as the Jarl turns and takes his leave, is one that nearly knocks him off his feet. Too many times in the past few days has he fluctuated between being safe, and his inevitable demise being just over the horizon. How much more can he take until he goes completely stark raving mad?

“Jack?” Toothiana’s bellchime of a voice rings in the boy’s ears, and he’s thankful that she speaks in a tone barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know how much of a start he can handle right now, having only a few minutes to prepare for a battle that promises to cost him his life.

“Y-yeah?” he stumbles over the simple response, about facing to look at her, Aster, and North. Worry mars all of their faces, but it’s only a veil for the blaze of determination he sees crackling underneath.

“We’re not going to let you do this alone.” Tooth tells him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Jack blinks, once, twice, and then a third time, attempting to understand what it is that he’s just been told.

“... Wait, what?”

Aster sighs, shaking his head as he steps up beside the dainty Bosmer woman. “You heard her, mate. We’re not lettin’ you go 'bout this alone.”

The mage just can’t seem to believe what he’s hearing, still looking on at the trio with the most perplexed of expressions. “But --but _why?_ ” 

“It is not being obvious to you?” North questions, voice a warm balm against Jack’s unease. “Whiterun is home to us, to the Companions. We would not let it fall without putting up a good fight first.”

All Jack can do for several beats is just stand there, not knowing whether he’s moved by the Companions sense of unity or if he’s thankful that they refuse to let him go down alone. He swallows at the emotion settling with a pang at the back of his throat, having been piling now for days, weeks even. There are so many different feelings running rampant through him all at once, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand it without crumbling like an old fort’s stone walls.

“Thank you.” is all he can manage with the torrent of feeling swirling through him in the calm before the storm, turning his gaze down and closing his eyes to steel himself to press on.

When he glances back up at the three warriors, the frigid light of his gaze crackles with the flame of determination, a barely contained hurricane of a second wind. They have a chance now, and Jack will be damned if he blows it.

“Let’s go.” he says, strength that he didn’t even know existed within him solidifying the baseline of his tone. Perhaps it is only adrenaline, but he’ll feed off it as long as it’s offering. “We’ve got a dragon to kill.”

 

***

 

There isn’t much left of the Western Watchtower when Jack, the Companions, Irileth and her small group of guards come up on it. Spots of ground are smoldering, grass aflame and the tower itself cracked and broken. Jack can pick up the all too familiar stench of charred flesh on the winds, making his gut lurch. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. 

While his determination to see this through and save Whiterun is still beating alongside the thump of his heart, witnessing such destruction again brings back the still fresh memory of Helgen, and all the lives lost. It's only thing keeping Jack from turning tail and running; making sure what happened to Helgen doesn’t happen to Whiterun.

“I don’t see any sign of it.” Irileth says, observations coming to a halt as she looks to her the guards she brought and then to Jack and the Companions. “I want all of you to look around, see if we can find any survivors.” 

They all split off in different directions, the guards going all their own ways, as well as Tooth and Aster. North however falls into step alongside Jack in their search for any potential survivors of the dragon attack.

“Do you think we will find anyone?” North asks, swords drawn as he searches, blue gaze falling back to Jack when he poses the question.

That’s a hard question to answer though, and Jack’s lips thin as he tries to find something satisfactory to reply with. There’s no way to sugarcoat it. 

“I don’t--”

“Get out of here! Run while you still can!” 

Jack jumps, his already staccato heartbeat kicked up a notch by the terrified guard who shouts at him from the crumbling watchtower archway. The mage finds himself far more concerned for the guard’s wellbeing than whether he should get out of the vicinity or not, approaching the cowering man without a second thought, North following closely behind.

“Are you alright, kinsmen?” North asks before Jack even has a chance to open his mouth. 

The guard’s head works on a jerky shake back and forth, terror reflecting in his eyes. “The other two, Hroki and Tor, got grabbed when they tried to run--” he glances back over his shoulder then, gaping as his legs shake beneath him. “Gods, here he comes again!”

The roar is felt and heard before Jack even sees anything. It’s a sound so bone chilling that it makes his legs want to give out from underneath him, rumbling through his lithe body like a crack of thunder.

“Shor’s bones…” Jack hears North whisper as the dragon makes its first appearance, the massive beast of legend rearing its head through the spirals of smoke given off by the fires it lit not moments before. Were it not so terrifying a sight then Jack would think the winged reptile magnificent and grand, scales a dull bronze made brilliant by the early morning sun, and the horns atop its head reminding him that these terrors are the supposed children of Akatosh himself. Lesser Aedra.

And suddenly Jack understands why the ancient dragon cults existed.

“ _Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde!_ ” 

The dragon bellows in a voice that booms through the air and shakes the earth. The language in which it speaks tugs at Jack, at the presence of knowledge that he’d just barely forgotten about, fluttering in his chest and writhing in the confines of his skull as if it wants to fly free, seeking like an arrow locked on--

North barrels into his shoulder before Jack can even complete the thought, knocking him out of his transfixed state. They end up on the watchtower floor with just enough time to hear the dragon shout and see a blaze of flame scorches the area where they had just stood. Jack’s heart is hammering in his chest as he gathers enough sense in his head to think, North standing over him and offering a hand to help him up. The boy looks at the gauntleted hand as if it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen, then logic grips him and he quickly takes it to stand.

“... Did-- did that dragon just _speak?_ ” Jack asks when he gains back enough of a mind to be coherent.

North nods, expression grim. “In dragon tongue, yes. I… I thought it was only legend,” the brunet glances with the same expression out the broken archway, to where the dragon circles in the sky, preparing for another strike. “But, it is not… It is-- it is _real._ ”

Jack can’t even answer, too petrified. It’s almost like he’s hovering over his body, looking in. None of this seems like it's truly happening. 

But the shrieks of terror and the battle cries of guards and Companions alike tell him that all of this is very, _very_ real.

North seamlessly goes from looking absolutely hopeless to fierce in the blink of an eye, body falling into a battle stance that makes Jack glad the burly Nord is on his side.

“Let us go, we do not have time to be wasting.” and with that, North is out the doorway and wading his way into the fight alongside his shield siblings. 

Jack sucks in a long breath, trying to compose himself any way he can before joining in the battle. His spell wielding puts him on ranged attacks like Toothiana and Aster, but he lacks their pinpoint accuracy. However, when he does land a hit, the damage it does is always irreparable. A sea of uncapped magicka welled within his slight being is both his most lethal weapon and his largest flaw, and he knows what happens when he misses.

But this is do or die time now, and it’s not just his life on the line anymore.

His gloved palms twitch, digits splaying as he lets the gelid glow of his magicka flow freely, a barely contained bomb set to go off at the slightest touch. It’s now or never.

The mage enters the battle to the sound of a boomerang whizzing past his head, to the zip of elven arrows cutting through the crisp air like knives. He’s almost hopeful that they’re making a dent in their scaled foe… Until the sickening _thump_ and _squelch_ of a guard’s half devoured body hits the ground with a splatter, scarlet sinew and entrails spilling.   

He swallows back the wretch that threatens to deprive him of whatever meager meal he’s had.

Kynareth above, he’ll never have the stomach for this. 

The waves of his magicka fluctuate, freezing halfway up his arms, fixing him with ice and claws that look like ill crafted gauntlets. Jack grits his teeth and presses on, forcing himself to remember Helgen, to remember the bodies burned and the small ones amongst the hundreds. There are children in Whiterun, and he can’t let the same fate befall them. Maybe there'd be at least _one_ that he could save.

Glacial beacons narrow and he seeks the dragon out, finding the beast hovering above the three Companions, readying to fire. The threat on their lives is all it takes for Jack to reel back and launch an ice spike with both hands in the airborne reptile’s direction.

He misses.

But it’s enough to garner the dragon’s attention, and he turns on Jack with a fury that would have the boy shaking were he in any other mindset. _Preserve_. _**Protect.**_

“Yeah that’s right, you ugly son of a bitch, come and get me!” perhaps those are not the wisest words for him to be shouting at a several hundred ton monster, but Jack could give less of a damn. It seems to draw the beast away from the Companions and the weakened guardsmen, which is all that matters. Now if he can just keep the damn thing’s attention--

“Unwise words for one so small,” the dragon booms as a few mere flaps from its massive wings bring it to hover in front of Jack. The boy pales, hearing the dragon speak in his own tongue is… Downright _terrifying._ “ _Nid trun vutharaak_ , Your body will soon join the pyer, mortal.”

Everything seems to move in slow motion in the next few seconds. The dragon shouts, three words that Jack can’t quite make out, but they rub at that presence of knowledge aching in his skull, cutting into him like blades. His mind runs through ways to get away, all ending in plans that are far too slow to execute. It very well looks like he’s about to be burned alive. 

Then his father is speaking to him in that calm and patient voice, in one of their few magic lessons that wasn’t about keeping his power hidden. What was it about? Something protective, something that could save him when he was in dire need, a Divine bestowed gift upon all Bretons-- 

_Dragonskin!_

He’d nearly forgotten how useful his racial abilities could be, half resistance to hostile magicka for one hour a day is exactly what he needs right now. He activates it without thinking, a natural part of his makeup that swiftly forms over his being in an invisible veil. Just in the knick of time too, as the fire spewing from the dragon’s maw covers him over. He thinks he hears Toothiana scream, Aster and North calling out to him frantically. It burns a bit, but not nearly as much as it could, his blood already resistant to incoming hostile magical attacks only increased by his natural racial ability.

When the flames clear, Jack is left standing in the center of a smoldering circle, the ends of his robe singed, pale face blackened with soot and ash. But, that is all that scathes the boy, and he again stands to his full height, shoulders wide and his own mighty flame of challenge burning within his gaze. 

“ _Fax sen_ ,” the dragon says, a tone mocking of congratulations saturating his earthquake of a voice. “But let us see how far your tricks serve you, hmm?”

Jack watches as he takes off into the skies once more, the gusts from his wings staggering the young mage. He sees the Companions draw closer, Toothiana darting out to perhaps aid him. Jack holds up a hand to halt her. 

“I’m fine!” he shouts, quickly steadying himself as he sees the dragon begin to round on their small group of able bodied warriors. “We’ve got bigger problems to worry about.” 

Tooth takes notice of the beast rounding on them, utter destruction its only thought. She looks back to Jack, and for the first time since he’s known her, she looks unsure. 

“I’ll distract him,” Jack tells her as calmly as he possibly can, lighting another spell in his palms. “The rest of you flank him, alright?”

The command gets him several skeptical nods between the Companions, the guardsmen, and Irileth. However, it’s all they have to go on, Jack being the only one that has a rough knowledge of how dragons operate, of how they wreak havoc. He may not know how to defeat one, but he’ll die trying, for at least he’ll be worth something that way.

The mage’s Dragonskin is thankfully still working when the foe in question launches a fireball in his general direction. He’s thrown back by the impact, charred and a little worse for wear, but still able to rise to his feet. On the dragon’s return trip, he sends a spear of ice jutting in through its scaley armored hide, a barrage of arrows following in the wake of his high powered destruction spell.

A shriek of a roar erupts from the dragon’s throat, echoing and ringing in Jack’s ears enough that he covers them, fearing they’ll bleed. He’s flying a crooked flight pattern now, recovering far more slowly than Jack is sure he’d like to be.

“You are brave,” is the response given in lieu of the lesser Aedra’s newly acquired injuries, and he chuckles with the force of a firestorm. “ _Bahlaan hokoron._ ”

He has been weakened though, Jack can see that in the beast's wobbly flight. Arrows still hit him from the ground, and all except Toothiana’s expertly crafted elven arrows and Aster’s boomerangs are doing any noticeable damage. The beast is bleeding profusely out of the puncture wound inflicted by Jack’s spear of ice, already melted away and the bloody gouge itself looking like it’s taking on a nasty case of frostbite.

Jack dares to think that they are going to bring this dragon down, that Whiterun will be safe. It just looks so hopeful.

Then, the ground rumbles and Jack is caught up in the dragon’s rather strategic crash landing.

There are shrieks of his name again, everything suddenly hazy and the world nothing but a cloud of dust and dirt with the stench of iron choking Jack and making his eyes tear with nausea.

All the mage knows is that he thinks he’s on his back and something has most definitely been thrown out of place. A shoulder? A knee maybe? He makes to move his left arm and the entire limb spasms with jolts of agony, and Jack cries out with the pain.

The earth trembles again, hot gusts of breath washing over him, thick with the stench of spoiled meat and blood. Frantic glacial hues snap open and find the golden orbs of his bronze armored enemy staring back at him, pupils narrowed to malicious slits and he swears the damn thing is _smiling_ at him.

“Not so mighty now, are you, _joor_?” the thunder of the dragon’s voice this close sends Jack’s heart stuttering and skipping over beats. He can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe._ “Keep your dignity about you, _dir voth zin--_ ”

The glint of metal and the clash of swords deafen the felled youth about as much as the screech resounding from his foe’s maw. It takes him a moment to register Aster, Tooth, and North all moving forward with the grace of a well oiled machine, in their element completely, with hellfire blazing in their eyes. 

Jack staggers to his feet, bracing his limp arm against his body, fingers digging into his bicep as he feebly grips at his injury. He breathes deep, pain searing through him as his chest expands, shifting the limb.

 _One._  

 _Two._  

_...Three._

And he shoves the dislocated shoulder back into the socket, barely containing the scream that threatens to burble out of him. He’s never felt that much physical pain before, but it’s only a one on the grand scale, the dragon fighting on its final wind in front of him being number ten. 

He grits his teeth and growls through the pain as he lets the magicka surge through him, flowing into his palms like the raging blizzards that encompass Skyrim’s furthest points, all consuming and killing everything in its path.

 Then, he lets go of it, sending an ice spear powerful enough to pierce bone straight through the dragon’s skull. It lets loose a final agonized wail, words that seem unimportant threading into his last breath before he goes completely limp.

 All present turn to stare at Jack, mouths agape, none of them having expected that the mage boy clothed in stolen robes would have ever possessed the might to kill a dragon, let alone deliver a final blow so astronomically devastating to such a foe.

 Jack’s breathing is ragged, body still taut, hands tingling with the aftershocks of such powerful magicka ripping through him and forcing its way out into existence. It takes him a short while before his eyes flutter closed and he allows his body to finally relax, but he’s unable to let himself go fully, fearing that he may fall to his knees and not be able to get back up.

 “... Jack… How did you even--” Toothiana tries, words failing her. 

“Manage to do that?” Aster finishes for her, both looking at him as if they can’t believe he’s still standing.

The frosty mage shakes his head. Gods, does his neck _hurt._ “I… I don’t know.” 

“Incredible!” North booms, an astonished grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “The last time we saw a mage this powerful--” 

But North doesn’t get to finish the thought, interrupted by the warm balm of golden light shimmering from behind him. What is left of the group turns, a resounding gasp passing through them all.

The still warm body of the dragon has been set aglow by forces unknown, skin slowly tapering back in the patterns of flames, skin and scale flaking like ash as it lifts and spirals into the honey gold glow of the light. It begins to swirl, dancing in streams as the entire company of warriors and soldiers alike watch transfixed as the whispering silken strands of light dance back to a singular point of interest. 

Jack. 

His heartbeat shatters through his sense of relief, chest heaving as the light licks at his skin. He moves, backs up, swats at it even in an attempt to chase it away. 

“Wh-what’s happening to me?” he barely hears how panicked his voice sounds. There’s the whispering again, the very same chanting he heard at the wall back in the barrow, only louder, stronger, clearer. The presence of knowledge that has been coiling low in his chest writhes, screaming inside of him, a sound like steel grating against granite. What’s happening? He can’t run, he can’t get away, he _can’t_ \-- 

The earth shattering roar of knowledge rips through him like a cataclysm. He doesn’t feel himself fall to his knees, or the shriek that tears free of his body. The only thing his feels is the wisdom, the _word_ , invading him and his entire being. 

 _Force._  

 _ **FORCE.**_  

 _ **F O R C E.**_  

“ _FUS!_ ”

The word -the sheer _power_ \- breaches his lips, sending a shockwave through the smoldering grasslands around the tower, coming to a trembling halt as it collides with felled stone and mortar.

… _What… What did I just do?_  

The terrified and bewildered thought arises in Jack’s mind and he glances around at the company of warriors at his back. Every last one of them is looking at him as if they’ve just seen the birth of a God.

Or a legend.

“... Dragonborn…”

The name of a mythical hero falls from the tongues of one of the guards, and Jack turns a petrified glance upon him, head already working on an adamant shake, back and forth. No. No. That’s not him, he can’t be. That was a title only bestowed on Emporer’s, on great conquerors like Tiber Septim. The Dragonborn is a force of change for the greater good, and Jack isn’t that.

But, before he even has a chance to retort, the earth underneath him rumbles, crying out, another earthquake borne of ancient magic far too powerful to be wielded by anyone of mortal blood.

_D O V A H K I I N_

Jack’s world falls into blackness.  

 

 


End file.
